


Warrior's Prayer

by Amuscaria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Warning for Littlefinger and anything he's capable of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-03 12:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 64,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13340847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuscaria/pseuds/Amuscaria
Summary: Sandor Clegane puts the Hound to rest and tries to woo a mysterious redhead. Whoever she is.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Catelyn Stark dies after Rickon’s birth and her demise changes many things for the better, many for the worse and some things it doesn’t change at all.
> 
> I have also prolonged the summer for five years, so the events of the books are only beginning to happen, the direwolves are still pups, but other than that everyone is 5 years older (Sansa and Joffrey 16, Sandor 31, Ned 39, Robb and Jon 19, Arya 14, Robert Baratheon 40, Jamie and Cersei Lannister and Gregor Clegane 36, Petyr Baelish 35, Beric Dondarrion 25, Brienne 22…) and Catelyn has been dead for 8 years. I also always call Sandor’s dead sister Aenor. There are only five direwolves in this AU, because direwolf Lady has never been born.  
> Completely sansan-centred, the first half of the story mostly in Sandor’s POV. English is not my native language and this is unbetaed, so I apologize for all the mistakes.

A Warrior. That was a bloody stupid jest, giving Sandor a little figurine of a god. If there had been any Warrior in the world, he would have let Sandor kill his brother. Why had the king even stopped Sandor? The Hound could have defeated Gregor, he could have chopped his head off in front of all those people and the world would have been a better place for it. Headless Gregor was exactly what the world needed. Headless Gregor and something to drink. Drink. Yes, Sandor needed to drink. Why had they poured him this expensive piss that was so weak only the Maiden herself could get drunk on it? Sandor wanted a goblet of sour red, or Dornish strongwine, he wanted to be drunk. Where could a man get something proper at this bloody feast? Sandor barked the order at someone, but it took them too damn long.

Sandor glanced to another table. There was his strongwine! And Cersei with Joff right next to it. There were far too many Lannisters and Baratheons in the world, something needed to be done about that, too. Why was Cersei even given Sandor’s favourite wine? She had never liked it! She was the beautiful queen, she should have been exactly the one drinking the sweet piss. Or had she become so used to it that she needed something stronger? That was quite unfortunate, Sandor wanted some strongwine to be left in the Red Keep for him, too. Luckily, the Hound found another goblet. He had no desire to be anywhere near the Lannisters, or Joff, Joff’s betrothed, or any other people for that matter.

“Dog, that’s my wine!” a droopy-eyed toad dared to complain.

“Well, it used to be,” the Hound agreed. “And now it’s mine. Consider it an honour.”

“What…”

“Shut your hole, Meryn.”

Sandor emptied the goblet and politely returned it to the brave knight. Only then he noticed that everything around him was yellow. Yellow. Black and yellow. Yellow. Seven bloody hells, he was surrounded by Clegane colours! And the sigil! Those buggering gods really wanted to rub it in his face, didn’t they? The winner of the joust, what good was him such title anyway? He was given the most expensive wine and the most expensive dishes. But the most expensive wine wasn’t by far the strongest one and the expensive meal consisted of a few salty little droppings costing more than an entire pig. Sandor stared at his plate for a long moment, disbelieving. What was this anyway? Gregor’s revenge? Sandor would have much preferred to devour the pig than the eggs of some damned fish. And of course, there was yet another figurine of the Warrior next to his plate. Inedible figurine, just standing there, looking all fierce with its clay head and a toothpick of a sword. At least they could have made all the figurines out of bread or something. Sandor wouldn’t have minded biting the god’s head off. Sandor threw the figurine on the floor. It took him a few well-directed insults to get his own pig and hiw own strongwine. Finally.

But by now Sandor’s mood had turned even fouler than before. What were all the money worth to him when he couldn’t kill his brother? And the girl, the damned girl next to Joff, she was sitting there and she was sad. Why wasn’t she angry? She should have been angry at the world, not sad. Sandor’s sister would have been angry in her place. Sandor had thought the Stark girl had a good head on her shoulders, too, she always looked him in the eyes without flinching. But she was just like all the other ladies and she thought her sadness would change something. Damn her and damn her sadness. Joff would torture the girl to death if he could. Perhaps he would one day. He liked torturing. Just like Gregor. And Her Brother-fucking Majesty the Queen Cersei wasn’t any better. 

Joff would rape the girl, beat her and he would get a blessing from their parents for it. What kind of a man could agree to marrying his daughter to Joffrey, who looked like a cunt, spoke like a cunt and was obviously the greatest cunt in making? What kind of a man put friendship to a drunk pig over the safety of his own daughter? The same kind as Sandor’s own damned father. It didn’t matter that Robert was a king, it didn’t matter how close he’d been to Ned Stark in their childhood. Parents were meant to protect their children against anything, even against their own family and kings and all the other twats. Parents had to protect their children with their own life. Dogs did it. Wolves did it, too. But Sandor’s father did not. And Ned Stark didn’t, either. And the girl was already sad because of it. 

For now Joff luckily only wanted his betrothed to be far away from him. “Ser Meryn, my lady is tired, help her back to the chambers.”

A lascivious smile passed over the man’s face. Where was Ned Stark now? How could he have retired early and left his daughter alone among these rats? Again? Why did none of his men punch Trant in his face for the way he looked at the girl’s figure? 

“I’ll take her there,” Sandor stood up rather clumsily, knocking his chair backwards.

“Dog, this is your day, you should feast!”

“Bugger that. If it’s not my brother’s funeral, it’s not a feast for me,” Sandor grumbled. He was drunk, so he moved cautiously towards the girl. She didn’t wait for him, instead she quickly jumped up and marched off in a most unladylike manner possible. Sandor smirked at the sight. His sister had been like that, too. More a dog than a lady, even the colour of the eyes and hair matched the Stark girl. The similarity almost brought a smile to Sandor’s face. It was a nice memory, his sister all angry and fuming. Aenor Clegane hadn’t known the dangers of the world. And Joffrey’s precious little betrothed, Arya Stark, didn’t know them, either. Not yet.

“You’re going in the wrong direction, girl,” Sandor growled after her. He was too drunk to be chasing after a mad little wolfling. “Believe me, you don’t want to get lost in this damned castle.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing!” Joffrey’s betrothed scowled.

“Since when?”

“Since ever.”

“Is that so? Is that why you attacked the prince at the Trident?” Sandor sneered.

“I’ve never attacked Joffrey!” she turned to him, yelling. She looked so much like Aenor. “I should have! I should have let Nymeria tear him apart!”

“Sure. Then I would have got my chance to tear you apart like your dear friend. That at least would have been some fun.”

“How can you talk like that about what you’ve done?! You’re the worst man ever!” she screamed at him in the middle of the hallway.

“Oh, am I now?” Sandor sneered. “Haven’t you seen my brother, girl?”

“I have and you’re just like him! You’ve killed an innocent boy and you think it’s funny!”

“It’s always funny when the rats are squeaking,” Sandor laughed harshly. “I’ve killed him, because he was stupid enough to attack the crown prince! I’ve killed him because it was an order!” 

But the girl didn’t have the common sense to shut her mouth. “Mycah didn’t attack anyone! We were just playing, Joffrey was the one who attacked him! I only defended Mycah and Nymeria defended me. Mycah didn’t do anything at all, I did! I was helping him!”

“And you’ve helped him greatly indeed, my lady!” Sandor bowed mockingly. “It’s not my place to question the Queen’s words, girl. I was given my orders and I have to obey them.”

“That’s why you’re like your brother! I know what he’s done! They told him to rape an innocent woman and kill innocent children and he did it gladly. I know it! They told you to bring an innocent boy and you killed him! All Cleganes are made of the same shit!”

“You don’t know half as much as you think you do!” he growled threateningly. “And I’ve never even raped anyone!” Sandor barked out stupidly. He hated how it sounded. As much as he tried to think of something, he couldn’t come up with any defence and it only angered him further.

“But you do whatever you’re ordered, don’t you?” she spat. “When they tell you to rape someone, you’ll do it, too. You’re such a good dog without own brain after all!”

She sounded so much like Aenor it was almost scary. Aenor would have never thought that about Sandor, would she? She had loved Sandor. He didn’t remember his mother, but he remembered Aenor, she’d been the only person who had ever truly loved him and stood by him against Gregor. She had died defending Sandor. She had understood him. She… she had hated violence.

“Ah, the lady’s getting afraid?” Sandor scoffed. “You sure don’t have to worry about that, she-wolf, nobody would ever take you for a girl anyway.”

Arya glared at him, then turned on her heels and strode off angrily down the hallway. Truth be told, she was a girl pretty enough, just like Aenor, only much smaller, but she was the last living female Stark and the influence of her brothers was profound on her. She was a wild little thing.

The she-wolf always screamed at Sandor, so he welcomed the momentary silence. His head was pounding, but he tried to remember the events at the Trident once more. Cersei had said that Joffrey had been attacked by the Stark girl, the wolf and the butcher’s boy. Cersei’s pretty pet sword Jaime immediately ordered the men to bring the boy dead or alive. Sandor didn’t give a rat’s arse about the boy and as a good old dog, he obeyed. The Hound truly liked having power over other people’s lives. He could kill anyone, he could survive anything. He wasn’t the helpless little boy, whose face had been melted by Gregor. He was a man now and he trained harder than anyone. He could never be as strong as Gregor, but he was stronger than any other swordsman in Westeros and he was more agile and skilful than Gregor. Now that Selmy was past his prime and Sandor was gaining more experiences, he was finally the best fighter in Westeros. At least he thought he was. He had to be. He had to. Unlike all the other knights, he trained with every weapon accessible, he could easily kill with bare hands and he certainly didn’t need a fancy sword to win a fight. He liked to have one for sure. He liked being ready. The Hound was the best fighter and he was getting better by the day. Didn’t everybody see how big he was? He was a man now. He wasn’t helpless like that stupid butcher’s boy. He was a man. Nobody could defeat him, nobody could ever hurt him again. He was a man.

He had given the butcher’s boy a swift, clean death and that was more than any adult men had ever done for Sandor. Cersei would have never given the boy an easy death, she’d have made him a perfect deterring example. No commoner could ever hit Joffrey and live. The King wouldn’t have opposed Cersei, just like he hadn’t opposed the killing of Arya’s direwolf. The bitch, Nymeria, survived only because she had run away. The King knew perfectly well what the direwolves meant to the Starks and to his good old friend Ned, but he didn’t care. The great King Robert saved his arguments for the important topics, like drinking or whoring. The butcher’s boy would have suffered a horrible death, so Sandor had actually done him a service. Of course he had. Sandor was nothing like Gregor. He was different. He would never rape and burn people. Gregor liked torturing people with fire. Sandor would never do that. The stupid girl was wrong. 

But Sandor had laughed about his kill just like Gregor, hadn’t he? When Lord Eddard asked him about the boy, Sandor had laughed. Why had he laughed again? Oh, yes, because of the Lord of Winterfell, the man was really funny. Ned Stark had been horrified when he saw the bloodied sack on Stranger’s back. He had feared that it was the corpse of Nymeria. The honourable Warden of the North was afraid Sandor had caught and killed a direwolf. But he was wrong, Sandor had actually killed the butcher’s boy and Lord Eddard was relieved for it. Lord Eddard, famed for his sense of honour and justice, revered Lord Eddard had been relieved because only a child had been killed, not an animal. Sandor could read it in his eyes, smell it in the air they’d been breathing. Lord Eddard had been relieved that it was a mere boy. Just as mere as Sandor had once been. And the Hound laughed. At the boy, so stupid to hit Joffrey. So stupid to run screaming like a little rat, instead of hiding in silence and allowing Sandor to divert the attention of others elsewhere. The Hound laughed at the lord famed for his unwavering sense of justice, a lord who so greatly valued the life of an animal over the life of an innocent child. A lord who judged the Hound for giving the boy the quickest death, when he himself hadn’t bothered to lift a finger for a commoner’s life. And most of all Sandor laughed at himself, for thinking that the Starks could ever have been better than the Lannisters. Now Sandor knew the truth. And for that boy, for that damned poor boy, he despised Lord Eddard just as much as he despised the Queen. Their lordly shits all smelled the same after all.

The girl went the wrong way again, so Sandor grabbed her arm.

“Let me be!”

“Turn right and I’ll let you be,” he snarled.

“Can’t I have a look around the castle?”

“Not now, not with me. Go on, girl, you’re not the only one who needs to go to bed.”

“I don’t need to go to bed yet.”

“You can howl at the moon for the rest of the night for all I care,” Sandor growled. “But in your chambers. Turn right.”

The girl obeyed. “Why are you even here?” she asked. ”Nobody wants you here. Why are you not terrorizing people in the Cobbler’s Square along with your brother?”

Sandor scowled. He was drunk and he wanted to take a piss, thinking wasn’t easy for him at the moment. “What are you talking about? Gregor is far from King’s Landing by now.” Unfortunately. Sandor would have liked to continue in their little discussion.

“He is not. He wants to take revenge on uncle’s friend who jested about him. Uncle has sent some men after him to Cobbler’s square make sure nothing happens.”

Sandor narrowed his eyes. “What kind of bloody hogwash is that? You’re not making any sense, girl. Why would Littlefinger send anyone after Gregor?”

“Uncle is afraid his friend might get hurt.”

“Oh, good old Littlefinger is all worried for someone’s safety?”

“Yes, he is! He’s not like you! You don’t care for anyone, your life is useless, but other people are not like that!”

“Seven bloody hells,” Sandor cursed under his breath, shaking his head. “How have the Starks survived this long if they’re willing to believe that?”

“You can go and see your brother for yourself,” Arya shrugged. “May be uncle’s men will give both of you what you deserve,” she smiled dreamily.

Sandor opened the door for her. “Go to sleep, she-wolf,” he rasped. “You’re already having some wild dreams.”

Sandor himself wanted to go to bead already, but he couldn’t get Gregor out of his head. The girl wouldn’t have lied to Sandor like this, there had to be some at least some truth in her words. And Cobbler’s square was a nice place, nice enough for a midnight’s ride.

The city was strangely quiet. When Sandor left the Red Keep, he could hear only the sound of Stranger’s hooves, the creak and clatter of armour and saddlery, and the occasional calls of night birds. Why didn’t Sandor go riding at night more often? The city looked much better without people filling the moonlit streets. The Tourney was such a spectacular event that excited lords and knights as well as the commoners. But right now, when the Red Keep was celebrating, the city was fast asleep. Somewhere in the distance there was an enthusiastic mockingbird trying to attract a pretty mate, disturbing the night’s peace, but the commoners didn’t hear his song. They lay in their beds, having to work early in the morning. They were probably dreaming about knights and glory, too. Those buggering fools didn’t know the cost of all this splendour. They didn’t realize they were always the ones paying for it all. But Sandor wasn’t the one to complain, of course. He now had enough gold for expensive whores for every day for the rest of his life. And the gods knew a man needed just that to go through his days in the service of the Lannisters.

Sandor wondered whether he’d been told the truth. Had the butcher’s boy beaten Joffrey or not? Sandor hadn’t really thought about it before. He had assumed Joffrey had been his usual cunty self, provoking the girl and the butcher’s boy into a fight. The girl’s version was a bit different, though. And she was like Aenor, so Sandor trusted her word. Perhaps the boy hadn’t beaten Joff after all. Did it matter? Did it make any difference? Sandor had already known that House Lannister was built on lies and schemes. But the Lannisters were the only people Sandor had. When his father had died and Sandor run away from Clegane’s Keep, he found home and safety in their service. He gradually became important to them. The Lannisters didn’t love him, of course, but they wanted the Hound by their side. The children perhaps even liked him. Sandor knew what the Lannisters were, but he also knew all lords were just the same and he wouldn’t find anything better in his life anyway. There was no better choice. There were the Lannisters and then there was… Gregor.

Sandor stared at his brother, surprised. The she-wolf had been right, Gregor was really there. Sandor had found him in a courtyard of a nice house, belonging probably to some merchant or a stable owner. There were many carts filled with hay and oats in the courtyard and loose hay was scattered everywhere. Gregor’s usual brave companions were nowhere to be seen, but the man never took his rats to court, so they perhaps hadn’t joined him yet. There was still enough of Gregor’s dearest friend, death. Sandor quietly dismounted and left Stranger outside of the wooden gate. There were already several corpses lying on the cold ground, but it didn’t look much like a scene of a fight, it much more resembled a sheer slaughter. Ah, Joss, Gregor’s squire, was lying there, too. Good. There had been at least some resistance then. But Sandor payed more attention to another dead man. It was true, the comely guard had indeed worked for Littlefinger. But why had that little snake even sent someone after Gregor? It couldn’t have accomplished anything and Baelish had certainly known it. Littlefinger didn’t care for these people anyway. He never cared for anyone but himself, no matter what the Starks believed. And how did he even know where to find Gregor? Something was wrong about this. Something was very wrong.

Every member of this household was apparently lying dead in front of Sandor, except for one. Gregor was holding down a screaming young girl. She didn’t know that the screams of terror were exactly what Gregor loved and wanted. She didn’t know what it did to him. She saw only the spilled blood of her family, but she was too young to understand the rest. 

_You don’t care for anyone, your life is useless._ That’s what the little Stark bitch had said to Sandor. And perhaps she’d been right. “Let her go!” Sandor barked out.

“You!” Gregor gasped, disbelieving. “You!” he growled, forcefully pushing the girl away and drawing his sword. “You stupid whelp…”

The sound of the clashing swords reverberated through the quiet night. And this time there was no king around to stop them.

“Run!” Sandor bid the girl. “Run and hide!”

Luckily, the girl had enough sense to do as he bade. She disappeared without a word, her yellow hair flying behind her. She’d live. She’d be safe.

Sandor brought his sword edge up, catching the full brunt of a savage swing. His body shook from the clash, vibrations reaching every bone. Gregor’s face twisted in hatred, but he fought mostly in sullen silence. “Stupid whelp,” he grunted occasionally. He wasn’t exactly known for his eloquent speech. 

What would have their mother thought about this? She had died four moon turns after Sandor’s birth, but according to Aenor she had been sweet and kind, too good for their father. Sandor believed that. Father had been the cause of mother’s death anyway, making her heavy with another child just a moon’s turn after Sandor’s birth. Knowing the man, mother had probably not even been willing. Father had been a huge, strong man with temper, beating children bloody every time they displeased him. Had he beaten mother, too? Would she have judged Sandor for becoming even more violent than father? Would she have been able to forgive him?

Sandor took a step back, both men staring each other down, both disbelieving this was really happening. “What do you think?” Sandor said out loud. “What would mother think about you, brother?”

“Be quiet.”

“You knew her, so tell me. What would she think about us?”

“You’ll meet her soon enough.”

Sandor smirked. “I might. But you never will, brother. There is no hope for you left.”

“Shut up!“ Gregor charged at him at him with rabid ferocity. Sandor ducked, parried, and easily deflected Gregor’s attack. Gregor had always been too slow for him. Too slow of mind. Too slow of body.

Their father had beaten them both, but Gregor had suffered more. Blinding headaches had plagued him through his childhood and in father’s eyes, Gregor’s sickness was ruining reputation of House Clegane. All Cleganes were supposed to be loyal, strong and healthy, they weren’t allowed to be weakened by a silly headache. When Gregor misbehaved or spoke about his problems, father had beaten him up and forced him to drink the milk of the poppy to fall asleep and stop bothering him. During Sandor’s childhood Gregor had already been drinking the milk of the poppy daily. Aenor had been the oldest of the siblings, three years older than Gregor and she had always begged their father to ask more maesters, to try and search for other ways to help Gregor. It had all been in vain. The bruises and the milk of the poppy had been the only help Gregor had ever received from his father. Gregor always hated unexpected sounds and when he was unwell, he feared noise with all his being. But then when he felt good again, he wanted to hear people scream. He couldn’t control his own suffering, so he became master of other people’s pain. Still, half the time he was in pain himself and every uncomfortable sound could easily give him another overpowering headache. Everyone who dared to be loud around him then was risking their life. Sandor had learned that early enough, as Gregor often took out his anger on him. 

Gregor lunged at his brother, but Sandor avoided the blow and stepped aside. “You’ve come to get what you deserve, whelp, and now you’re too scared to fight?” Gregor fumed, unable to keep up with Sandor’s speed.

Could it ever have been any different? Gregor had loved Aenor and their mother. He had been attached to Aenor just as much as Sandor, perhaps even more. They had shared the grief over the loss of their mother, Aenor took care of Gregor whenever he was sick and always protected him against their father. She was the only one who could calm him down, who could make him see reason. Gregor never wanted to hurt Aenor, not her, never her. And Aenor had used that affection to protect Sandor for years. It had been effective and she managed to take care of both of them. Until one day, when Gregor lay in his bed with another agonizing headache, one of the worst in his life. Sandor was quiet, he really was. He just admired Gregor’s beautiful toy. Gregor had thrown it away, but it was amazing. It was a wooden knight, all painted up with great many little details. Sandor had never seen anything like it. It looked like a real knight, like a knight he himself wanted to be. He could move it and make the knight fight. Sandor had been so happy to hold it in his hands and play with it. He had called the toy Ser Sandor and decided Ser Sandor would be perfect for saving a beautiful maiden from a monster keeping her locked in a tower. Sandor had been giddy with excitement to play with the knight. But Gregor woke up, his headache even worse than before. Sandor hadn’t woken him up, he had been quiet, he really had. But Gregor blamed him for the headache, blamed him for stealing his toy.

Sandor now took a step back and froze when Gregor grabbed a torch. Fire. No, not fire. He couldn’t fight against fire. “Do you remember, little whelp?” Gregor smirked victoriously. “I should have burnt you to ashes the first time. You should have died instead of her!” Sandor felt the heat of the fire, felt sharp pain in his thigh when sword cut through it to bone. Sandor couldn’t, he couldn’t fight against fire. He couldn’t.

_You don’t care for anyone, your life is useless._ The words of the little she-wolf came unbidden to Sandor’s mind. Arya hadn’t been the only one who had protected a stupid boy against a monster. Gregor had shoved Sandor’s face down in the burning coals as a punishment for stealing his toy and Aenor desperately tried to stop him. Gregor lashed out at her, misjudging his strength, and Aenor fell down, hitting herself into her head. She died then and there, but Gregor didn’t realize it and it took three men to drag him off Sandor. They couldn’t do anything for Aenor. She had died. For Sandor. She had saved his life so many times. And she had died for him, too. Their father then of course lied about it all. Cleganes hadn’t been lords long enough and father didn’t want to risk his magnificent reputation. So he lied.

“You’ve killed Aenor,” Sandor said that name out loud. Neither of them used Aenor’s name in decades and Gregor’s eyes now widened in shock. “You have. Only you,” Sandor continued mercilessly. 

Gregor roared, swinging his sword with all his might, trying to hack Sandor down and burn him at the same time. Sandor’s cloak caught on fire, so he quickly tore it off and moved, narrowly deflecting Gregor’s blow. Sandor was bleeding, burnt and trembling. He could smell burning flesh and he wasn’t sure anymore whether it was the old memory or the reality of the moment. He could do anything, he could fight anything. Just not fire. Not fire. He imagined Aenor’s last moments and sprang once more to attack. The heavy blade whistled through the air, piercing the armour and slicing Gregor’s arm. The torch burnt Gregor before it fell onto the cart, immediately setting the hay on fire. Now both brothers were burnt and bleeding.

Gregor’s features were set in a horrible grimace, every muscle in his body rigid with a focused, murderous rage. Both brothers blamed each other for the death of their sister and both hated each other for it. Sandor stared deem into Gregor’s eyes. They were the same shape as Aenor’s eyes, but his seemed strangely empty. 

Sandor tried to fight, he did. But he was losing blood too fast and he was struggling to keep balance. And there was fire. So much fire. Gregor could see Sandor’s fear and laughed. “Where is Aenor now, whelp? You can’t fight for yourself?”

The Hound swung his sword once more, but his leg betrayed him and he fell down, feeling his thigh bone and forearm break as he hit the ground. He fell down. He knew he would never stand up again. He would die there. But the gate caught on fire, so Gregor wouldn’t get away, either. They were both going to the seven hells and Gregor was too stupid to realize it. Sandor looked up at his brother and smiled at him. They’d both burn today.

“No maiden to save you this time? No one?” Gregor sneered. He had truly drowned his mind in the milk of the poppy, hadn’t he? The hay around him was quickly catching on fire and only then, too late Gregor realized his Clegane cloak was burning, too. He hurriedly tried to remove it, but in his frantic movement he bumped into the burning cart. The load of the hay started to fall down, pure fire pouring onto Gregor’s head.

Sandor closed his eyes, Gregor’s screams of agony resonating in his head. Fire. Fire. Fire everywhere. The screams stopped and Sandor opened his eyes, seeing nothing else but fire. His brother was dead. Gregor was dead and there was no victory, no happiness, not even relief in the realization. The Hound had dreamt about Gregor’s death for so long and it hadn’t brought him any satisfaction. It never could have. There was nothing in his life now. Only fire. There was so much fire. Sandor tried to crawl away, but he had no strength left. He couldn’t… He couldn’t even get the dagger and cut his own throat. Not this. Not like this. Sandor tried to breathe, but he could not control the coughing. No, not fire. His bones were broken, blood was leaving his body, but he would burn to death anyway. 

He couldn’t, he couldn’t burn to death. But the fire was everywhere, he could feel the heat, he could smell burning flesh now. Flesh of his own brother. “Please,” Sandor whispered. “I’m burning!” he screamed. Hot air and ashes filling his lungs, the fire getting closer. “Help me. Someone. Help me.” He was crying. “Please!“

He was lying by the burning gate and he could hear great noise and some voices close to him, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Fire. The fire touched his foot and Sandor couldn’t get away from it. Not like this, not fire. Not this. “Help me, please!”

_You don’t care for anyone, your life is useless._ The Hound had wasted his life, hadn’t he? He’d lived only for killing Gregor and he’d wasted his life for it. He’d been willing to kill anyone, he hadn’t cared about anything. Aenor would have been ashamed of him, he knew it. Sandor wouldn’t have done it again. He had wanted to be a real knight once, a long time ago. He had dreamt about it. He’d wanted to help people like that little she-wolf and her butcher’s boy, not hurt them. He had failed Aenor who had given her life for his. Sandor wanted to make it right, but he couldn’t. If only he had one more chance. This time he would have protected the innocent. By the Maiden, he really would have protected the innocent. Sandor didn’t remember any prayers, but he prayed for that one chance anyway.

Sandor prayed. And then the Hound died.


	2. Chapter 2

Sandor’s whole body was hurting. He opened his eyes and he saw just sheer darkness, cold and suffocating darkness. Even blinking was hurting his eyes too much. He tried to swallow, but he felt flames burning his mouth instead. He tried to move, but he couldn’t. His memories kept rushing back. Fire. Swords. Fire. Gregor. Fire.

“Where am I?” he asked the darkness and no answer came back to him. “Where am I?” Nothing.

He was dead, he knew that much. Was this his hell, his eternity? Just… nothing? Painful nothing?

Sandor couldn’t think, so he closed his eyes again and didn’t think at all.

He heard his mother, whom he’d never known. He saw colours he’d never seen. He was floating and drowning, burning and growing to be bigger than mountains. He saw the world from the outside and then he was suddenly in the centre of it. He was riding Stranger, too. But then Stranger turned into a crying tree. Sandor was walking on the branches with ease, trying to catch a bird, a little fledgling that needed to be returned to its nest. Sandor was talking to his father, who looked small and wrinkly. He hadn't aged well. The man turned into a vicious wolf who was tearing Sandor's leg of, eating it. Sandor wanted to strangle the beast for it, but suddenly he couldn’t, he couldn’t move. He saved Aenor and then it was he himself who killed her. And the world was floating on a great ocean made of fire and it was cold, it was so cold. And it was so cold Sandor was sweating and burning.

When he opened his eyes the next time, there was light all around him. Too much light, unnatural amount of light. It was too painful and he couldn’t even focus on anything, so he kept his eyelids shut. He was sweating profusely, sweat dripping into his eyes, his whole body trembling with cold and his head spinning.

“Where am I?” he tried to say, but he coughed instead. It hurt. It hurt to cough. It hurt to breath.

“Shhh,” he heard a soft, feminine voice, and felt a small hand stroke his face. Another hand, just as warm, was holding his own. “Calm down, Sandor.”

“You know my name?” he rasped.

“Of course I know your name.”

Of course she did. She knew everything. Sandor had never spoken with this woman, but she knew him anyway. And she didn’t call him a dog. Sandor had never seen so much light, he had never heard such a beautiful voice. But he felt as if he had known the voice, as if he could trust it. 

“People call me the Hound,” he said with difficulty.

“Do you want to be the Hound?” the soft voice asked.

Sandor swallowed. “No.”

“Well, that is a good start at least,” he heard a smile in the voice. Sandor felt another blanket being pulled over him. And there was a sound of splashing water and a cool soothing touch of a wet cloth on his forehead. Sandor lay still, enjoying the sensation, slowly drifting off to sleep.

“Who are you?” he managed to ask.

“You need to rest now, Sandor.”

Sandor agreed.

The next time he was awakened by a violent, hoarse cough. A searing, unbearable pain shot through his whole body. And when he opened his eyes, a blinding light assaulted them again, sending splitting pain through his head. He quickly clenched his eyelids shut. Where was he?

“Shhh, it’s alright,” a soothing voice told him and he felt a small hand touch his chest and another one slip into his calloused palm. “Just take a deep breath, Sandor. Breathe.”

Panting breaths came out of his mouth as he tried to comprehend his situation. Sandor was covered in sticky sweat and his head felt incredibly heavy, too heavy to lift. He couldn’t keep his eyes opened for long. There was simply too much light everywhere. The girl realized it and gently lay a cold cloth over his closed eyes. The coolness helped, it eased the pain. And finally, Sandor started remembering everything. His death. His encounter with the darkness, his encounter with this strange light.

Those soft hands were now doing something with his hair. Why was the woman touching him at all? He could still feel the scars on his face. He was scarred even in his afterlife, which was very disappointing. 

Sandor didn’t know what to say to the woman, but he wanted to say something. “I prayed,” he remembered.

“I know.”

“What… what should I call you?”

“You can call me Alayne.”

“But it’s not your name,” Sandor knew. He knew who she was. Of course he knew it. He wasn’t a dimwit, he knew it the first time he’d heard her. 

She stayed silent. She was too good to lie, so she couldn’t contradict him.

“I prayed to the Maiden,” Sandor confessed.

“I know. You saved my friend and prayed for a chance to save others, too. Lady Arya Stark, you said. You wanted to protect her.”

She knew it. Of course she did. This little trick with omniscience was starting to be a little annoying, though. Too much knowing. Too much purity. Sandor knew he was speaking to the Maiden, a goddess of purity. But he would have preferred if the goddess had known a bit less about him. Did she know about his whoring, too? Did she know his dreams? This was ridiculous. He had never learnt how to speak to women. Now he was dead and instead of speaking to the Stranger, or at least the Warrior, he met the Maiden herself. Because he was such a great company for the purest of pure, wasn’t he?

“I meant it.”

“I hope so. Now rest, Sandor, please. Try to sleep.”

He obeyed. He had always been an obedient dog when he’d been alive. And this was such a divine master, he wouldn’t mind being loyal to her. Could he stay with the Maiden for the rest of eternity? When Sandor woke up the next time, he was feeling much better, he could even think a little about his situation. He wondered whether the woman could look into his head, too. 

So he was dead now, that much was obvious. He was tied down and in pain, that much he deserved. The last thing he had done in his life was to pray to the Maiden, so he had been brought to the Maiden. That made sense, but it was actually quite embarrassing. Had any other man ever prayed to the Maiden in the last moments of his life? Sandor had been the best fighter in Westeros, but he hadn’t had enough sense to pray to the Warrior instead. Typical. He always did everything wrong. Men never did much praying to the Maiden, even as green boys they didn’t really care about their own purity. They prayed to the Maiden only when they wanted her to keep their daughters and sisters safe. They certainly didn’t pray to her when they were dying. Seven hells, Sandor was really the only one, wasn’t he?

“Why am I not in one of the seven hells?” he asked. 

The Maiden was carefully shaving his face and Sandor didn’t mind it at all. The girl made it feel like the most natural thing. With her he could forget about all the misery of his life. “You yourself have said you prayed for one more chance,” she reminded him. May be the gods have thought you deserve that chance.”

“But… I really never pray. Definitely not like this. If anything I always spoke to the Stranger. I mean… Not that I regret praying, it’s just...,” Sandor explained awkwardly, trying not to ruin his chances and to look at least a little manly at the same time. 

“It is never too late to start.”

“What… what about Gregor?”

“He did not pray.”

Sandor swallowed, nodding. Then he thought of something else. 

“And Aenor? Will I ever meet her?”

“One day perhaps, in a distant future.”

Sandor smiled and nodded. He would have preferred to see Aenor as soon as possible, but this was good enough. The life in the seven heavens was obviously very complicated, but that was to be expected. Sandor shouldn’t have been here in the first place, but now that he got his chance, he wanted to use it as well as possible. He was determined to prove his worth to do Maiden, Sandor didn’t want to bother her with too many questions everyone else kept asking. Sandor wanted her to see him as someone better than the others. Was it wrong? He’d been stupid to pray to the Maiden, but it didn’t seem like such a bad choice after all. Not now, when the Maiden was wiping the sweat off his brows, when he could hold the Maiden’s hand, when he could smell her. She smelled like lemons and beauty and comfort. No other man had ever thought of praying to the Maiden for himself, but men were all stupid buggers anyway. They didn’t know what they were missing.

The Maiden knew what he was thinking, didn’t she? There was no sense in pretending in front of her. Sandor could tell her everything about Aenor and Gregor, he could tell her about the Lannisters, his own crimes, his own fears, even about the little Stark bitch. Sandor felt better for extended periods of time, he could breathe without coughing, so he talked to the Maiden as much as he could. The Maiden didn’t speak much, which was a pity, but she never judged Sandor, she held his hand, she stroked his cheek and hair, she always comforted him. It was a heaven. It was the most beautiful of heavens. It wasn’t made for the likes of Sandor, he had sneaked in by accident. But he would do everything in his power to stay there, too. He wanted to serve the Maiden, he really did.

Still, even the Maiden’s heaven wasn’t perfect and the Maiden’s voice was sometimes laced with sadness and her hands were trembling.

“You are scared,” Sandor realized. “You are scared, aren’t you?

“You should rest, Sandor.”

Resting, being calm, sleeping, those were all just the Maiden’s fancy words for shutting up. But Sandor didn’t want to do any of those buggering things and he certainly didn’t want to shut up. 

“You’re like a little singing bird, repeating it all the time,” he snarled and squeezed her delicate hand. “What is it?” he asked the Maiden. “What is the matter?”

“Nothing,” she told him in a soft voice which made it clear that the opposite was true. Something was wrong, something was very wrong.

“You can’t lie, you know that, girl?” he growled.

“You should rest.”

What could the Maiden be scared of? She was a goddess of everything pure and good and beautiful. Sandor hadn’t even had a proper look at the heavens yet, he was in pain and utterly confused, but he could sense the beauty surrounding him anyway. And yet perhaps the heavens weren’t so different from the world of the living after all. The Maiden was all things good, just like the Mother, which made her a great and a very vulnerable goddess. Sandor frowned. Did anybody hurt her? Was she in danger? Was that why she had given him a chance? Sandor hoped he would be able to stand up soon. He needed to protect the Maiden. He was a mere mortal and a dead mortal at that, but he would protect the Maiden against anything. He would.

Sandor was again awakened by a sharp pain, this time in his thigh. Someone was cutting into his leg, digging deep into it. There was still a piece of cloth over Sandor's eyes and Sandor still couldn’t move one bit, so he just screamed in pain instead of strangling his attacker to death. The hand touching him was neither small, nor soft. There was no smell of lemons around him this time, either. The stench of blood and sweat mingled with the sour odour of his unwashed body and almost made him retch.

“What are you doing?” Sandor rasped.

“Calm down, young man,” an old voice replied him. “The wound looks better now, but we still haven’t won, so let me do my job.”

“Your job? What job? What are you talking about?” barked out. “I want the Maiden!”

“Who doesn’t? You are lucky that I’m not a septon, just a mere maester, young man,” the old bugger laughed good-naturedly. “Now calm yourself down. We have tied you up, but I still need you to relax your muscles, I need to sew this up again."

“A maester? What are you doing in my heaven? Get out!” Sandor commanded.

It only earned him more chuckles. “You’ve been lying in my own bed for three weeks between life and death, young man. One would think you could finally get to remember me. But I guess I don’t have the body to be worth remembering, do I?”

Sandor had a special choice of words for the damned man, but then he felt some more pain in his thigh and fainted.

His head was spinning and there were too many voices around him and he didn’t understand what they were saying. He thought he’d heard Meryn Trant, but then he was all alone, in the middle of a snow storm. He was fighting it with a sword in his hand, cutting through the air. He couldn’t breathe, the snow was filling his mouth and he coughed and coughed and coughed. While fighting in vain, he almost stepped on a little fledgling he’d been trying to catch so many times. There were too many voices around him, Sandor didn’t want to hear them. He quickly tossed his sword away and grabbed the little fledgling in his hands, trying to keep it warm and safe. But then one of his legs turned to ice and burst into thousand pieces, each having a voice of its own, screaming at Sandor. The snow melted into a river and everything around him drowned, even all the fish around him were dead. And Sandor was drowning, too.

Sandor coughed, spitting water all around him. 

“Shhh. I am sorry, Sandor, I am so sorry,” the Maiden’s voice was trembling again. “I am so clumsy. I am sorry. Are you alright?”

“What…? What’s happened?”

“You need to take another sip.”

Sandor drunk much more than that to make her happy. It still hurt to swallow, but the Maiden was always delighted when she made him eat and drink. “I was dreaming…” he remembered then. “There was a man saying I was between life and death,” he complained to the Maiden later. “But it’s not true, is it?”

“You are a strong man,” the Maiden told him gently. “You are out of the worst, I promise, you will live.”

“Live?” Sandor repeated. “No, no, I… the fire… the death…”

“The Hound has died. But Sandor Clegane has sworn to live and change, remember?” she stroked his cheek.

Sandor loved those little gestures. The Maiden often touched his face, brushed his hair, made him feel warm and comfortable. He told her about his worst crimes and she kept doing those things anyway. Nobody had ever been so tender to him, so understanding. How could he ever live without it?

“I can change here, too, I can help you,” Sandor suggested. He sounded like a petulant child and he didn’t even care. “I don’t want to return.”

“It will take some time before that happens, Sandor, do not worry now.”

Sandor did worry. He hadn’t wanted to die, but now that he knew the Maiden’s heaven, he couldn’t imagine going back to the Lannisters. And there was still something wrong with this heaven, the Maiden was often anxious and sad, she was scared of something and Sandor had to know what was worrying his little bird. His… what? No, he hadn't meant it that way. She was his queen. His goddess. His something. She had told him to call her Alayne, but she hadn’t sounded very convincing. She knew about Sandor’s disdain for great titles, so she had tried to make him feel more at ease in her heaven, he understood that and appreciated it. But Alayne simple wasn’t a name for the Maiden.

“But… I want to stay with you,” Sandor held tight to her hand. “Please let me stay with you. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Calm down, Sandor. You need to rest.”

Sandor had enough of resting, enough of mysteries. He wanted to stay and protect the Maiden from whatever dangers she was facing. Meeting her was the greatest thing that had ever happened to Sandor and as ridiculous as it sounded, Sandor wanted to protect the Maiden and keep her safe. He hoped he made his point clear enough. He didn’t return to his mortal body and hear the buggering maester again, so he hoped it meant he would stay. He didn’t dare to ask. He was often drowning in strange dreams and he was confused and overwhelmed by everything, he just knew he could never go back to being the Hound, he could never be parted from the Maiden.

He was feeling better and better and the Maiden finally untied him. Sandor could carefully loosen up his limbs and the Maiden even slowly helped him sit down. Sandor loved feeling her body so close to his face, he loved breathing in her smell. It made him feel more alive than he’d been in his entire life.

“The fever is still burning through you, Sandor, you have to be very careful,” she told him.

“Don’t worry, little bird, I’m stronger than that,” he assured her, discreetly flexing his muscles. Did she see them? He was glad to have his muscles even in his afterlife. He was still strong, women liked that. Seven hells, could the Maiden hear these thoughts, too?

When the Maiden pulled the cloth off his eyes, Sandor slowly opened them, blinking several times to get used to the dim light of the room. Everything looked so normal it was almost disappointing. He was in a normal bedchamber, clean, but very modest, not unlike his own. The blinding light was gone, so the Maiden had obviously tried to make him feel comfortable in the new environment, adjusting it to his place. She was like that, always trying to make him feel comfortable. Sandor turned his head to her. She was… there.

The Maiden was a girl. Yes. A woman. With hair. And eyes. And mouth. She looked like a mortal woman, just different. More… seven hells, she looked like a woman! Sandor started to panic. He had hoped, he had really hoped the Maiden wouldn’t look like an actual woman. She could have been a maiden lizard or something, why did she have to look like a woman? Everything about her was completely wrong. A woman destined to be a maiden for all eternity should have had only three rotten teeth in her mouth, three dirty hairs on her head, a missing nose and scars matching his own. Not… this. Her skin resembled the petals of the most beautiful flower, her auburn hair reminded Sandor of autumn sunshine, her smile could end the longest of winters. This was so damn wrong. The Maiden’s eyes, they saw everything and they reflected everything that was beautiful in the world. She looked like a woman, but not quite. She was too breath-taking to be a real person. She was the embodiment of beauty. It made sense, but it made no sense at all. Somebody hadn’t thought this through. Sandor wanted… no. He didn't want anything. He rather closed his eyes. 

He took a deep breath, he tried to relax, rest and stay calm. He couldn’t. He was really damned for all eternity, wasn’t he? This was his punishment. And he couldn’t even think the things he was thinking. He couldn’t, it wasn’t possible, the Maiden would see all his little imaginations in his head. Well, that wasn't so bad... No. It was bad. Unacceptable. His cock wasn’t doing anything, Sandor was calm, he was very calm. He was the calmest dead man in the world. Sandor opened his eyes and saw the same kind face in front of him. He saw the eyes, the mouth… The Maiden. She was the Maiden. Out of all the women he could have chosen… Seven bloody hells, Sandor had fallen for the Maiden herself. He was doomed.


	3. Chapter 3

As it turned out, Sandor wasn’t dead after all. He had spent weeks between life and death, but one day he woke up in his own chamber in the Red Keep, feeling a touch on his arm. But it were Pycelle’s helpers washing his ugly body. The younger boy cut Sandor when he trying to shave his face and Sandor barked at him, making him cry. Actually, Sandor might have barked at everyone. Perhaps even a bit more than usual. He had never wanted to die, but being torn from the Maiden’s heaven was worse than death by burning. He had met the Maiden, he had known her touch. He’d felt understood, he’d been at peace. And he’d lost all of that. He was brought back from the most beautiful of heavens to the Red Keep and he never saw the Maiden again.

Sandor’s fever went away, his leg healed completely and so did all the other wounds. The king didn’t punish him for Gregor’s death and neither did the Lannisters. Stranger survived without any injury and he was all too eager to see Sandor again. The little Stark bitch was healthy and fine, despite being once again confined to her chambers by Ned Stark. Sandor was rich and healthy, his brother was dead. Everything was well. Everything was perfect. But it wasn’t, not really. Sandor never saw the Maiden again. He didn’t see her. He didn’t hear her. He didn’t feel her touch.

The longer time passed since Sandor’s encounter with death, the more he doubted the reality of it. Had he really met the Maiden? He’d had so many feverish dreams, the Maiden could have easily been just one of them. Sandor had no place in any heaven, least of all the Maiden’s one. Sandor had been in pain, so he’d dreamt about pain a lot, too. As always. This time he’d dreamt about fish and birds and some other nonsense, too. But his conversations with the Maiden were nowhere near nonsensical. They’d felt completely different, they’d felt incredibly real. Sandor remembered telling her all about his siblings and father, he clearly remembered her touching him, shaving him, feeding him, wiping his tears. He even remembered promising the Maiden to protect the Starks, though he didn’t know anymore why he did that. Had it really all been a dream?

He didn’t see the Maiden again and there was no indication that he had ever met her. No miracles, no signs, she didn’t even visit him in his dreams. Sandor was a fool for thinking it had been real, wasn’t he? It was embarrassing. It had all just been a dream and he was a stupid dog for thinking otherwise. He had never met the Maiden of course, it was a ridiculous idea to say the least. The blue-eyed beauty was entirely a creation of his wild imagination. She didn’t exist. She had never existed. Sandor clenched his teeth and beat the men in training. It didn’t help. 

Sandor grew stronger again. He was better and better at fighting, he got as good as he’d ever been. Tywin wanted Sandor to replace Gregor and take over the Clegane’s Keep. Sandor hadn’t taken any vows after all. But Cersei wanted Sandor to stay in King’s Landing and keep Joffrey safe. They were unsure what to do and Sandor didn’t really care. At least he managed to get Gregor’s pet rats executed, that was a welcome success. What would the Maiden think about it? Well, nothing, of course. The Maiden wasn’t real. Or the beautiful redhead wasn’t real. Or both. Perhaps nothing was real anymore.

Sandor couldn’t sleep, so he went for a ride. Night after night. It didn’t help, either. One night Sandor even somehow ended up in the doors of a small septry. He breathed out, hesitated for a moment, but then he stepped in. Sandor Clegane in a septry. What had the world come to?

The septon was clearly thinking the same. He stared at him as if he was the Stranger himself. “What can I do for you, my son?” he asked warily.

“Not your son,” Sandor growled and sat himself down. “Tell me about the gods.”

“About the Seven? What about them? Do you seek forgiveness or guidance, my… ser?

“Cut that shit. I just want to know about the Maiden.”

“The Maiden?”

Sandor scowled, his mouth twitching. He wouldn’t get embarrassed for asking about the goddess of little girls. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

The buggering septon glanced at Sandor’s sword and swallowed nervously. “Well, the Maiden is the guardian of purity…”

“What else?” Sandor demanded impatiently.

“She protects women’s purity.”

“What else?”

“Well… that’s all a warrior like you needs to know, ser. But we can pray together to the Father and the Warrior, if you will.”

“I don’t,” Sandor retorted. “I want to know about the Maiden.”

“But there is not much to tell!”

“What does she look like?”

“Like purity.”

“Seven bloody hells, enough about purity. What does her hair look like?”

“But…” the septon anxiously looked around, as if he could find a help in the middle of a night. “She is not a woman, she’s one of the Seven, you can’t describe her like that, ser!”

“Why not? Is it red? Is her hair red?”

“The Maiden shines with all shades of women’s beauty.”

“Can the hair be red then?”

“Of course. But she is one with all the other gods, you can’t separate her from them like that.”

Sandor frowned. He didn’t like the idea of the Maiden being one with the Warrior at all, so he tried not to dwell on the thought too much.

“What could she be afraid of?” Sandor wondered. 

“Afraid? The Maiden is one of the Seven, she knows everything, she is not afraid.”

“What about her enemies? Does she have enemies?”

“Well, the seven devils of course,” the septon replied.

Of course, of course. Sandor had enough of that. Did the sodding septon really expect Sandor to know anything about the Seven? “Do they hurt her?” he inquired further.

“No, of course not. They are just the opposing force.”

Sandor’s mouth twitched. “If they hurt her, I’ll kill them,” he murmured to himself.

“I beg your pardon, but…” septon blinked, seemingly surprised. “You cannot speak like that about the hells’ forces, ser, the devils cannot be killed!”

Sandor shrugged. “You haven’t seen me fight.”

“But… but… but…”

“Enough. Tell me more about the Maiden.”

“But… but…”

“Does she like men?” Sandor wanted to know.

“No! The Maiden is… is… she’s pure!” the septon stammered. Sandor wondered whether a dagger at his throat would help him express himself clearly.

“Liking a man doesn’t hurt her maidenhead,” Sandor scowled. He never understood this obsession with maidenheads and purity. “But if she were to caress a man’s face, what could it mean?”

“The Maiden would never do that! She has no carnal desires. She would never even glance at a man, much less touch him!”

“Why not?” Sandor remembered the soothing touch of her gentle hands. She had shaved him. She had brushed his hair. It had been so wonderful, so heavenly. Nobody had been so kind to him in his adult life.

“She is the pure innocence. Of course she wouldn’t touch a man!”

“Isn’t there a tale about the Maiden falling in love with the Perfect Knight or something?”

The septon frowned, looking almost offended. “A tale. A folk tale. It reality, the Maiden would never fall in love with anyone. Never touch anyone, never give anyone swords,” he said decidedly.

Sandor still doubted the man’s word. “Have you met her?”

“We all meet the Seven in our prayers!”

“Well, perhaps it’s not enough to know her wishes,” Sandor snarled, not satisfied with the man’s answers at all.

The whole conversation led to nothing. The buggering septon didn’t know enough about the prettiest being in existence, he just kept repeating the same phrases. What had Sandor expected anyway? The Maiden wasn’t real. The redhead wasn’t real. It had all just been a dream. A dream.

Sandor got back to the Red Keep at dawn. All the ladies and lords were supposed to be in their beds, but when Sandor passed the she-wolf’s door, he heard screams. He quickly grabbed his sword, but then he realized the bitch was shouting at her own father. The little brat.

“Why can’t you be reasonable and just follow septa Mordane’s advice?” Ned Stark approached the girl calmly. “Sansa never had a problem to obey…”

“I’m not Sansa!” the she-wolf screamed. “Sansa is dead, father! She’s dead! Mother is dead, Sansa is dead, they’re gone, gone! But I’m still here and I’m not their replacement!”

“But you are a lady and if you try…”

“No!” Arya cried. “I’ll never be like Sansa, don’t you understand? I’m not her! I can’t be your perfect little daughter! I can’t!”

Sandor didn’t feel comfortable to listen to such an intimate conversation, so he walked away. The girl was safe. That was all that mattered.

Weeks passed and everything indeed returned to normal. Normal shit. Eddard Stark struggled in his new position as Hand of the King, but the king merrily continued to drink and whore. Lord Eddard was much more active than his predecessor, he seemed to genuinely care for the wellbeing of the realm, he kept also asking about Jon Arryn’s death, he always worried about the debts and Sandor saw him all the time sending letters to Winterfell. Sandor almost felt sympathy for the man. Almost. Lord Eddard’s son crippled son had been nearly murdered by a stranger and he was saved only by a direwolf. It was actually nice to see a lord so genuinely worried about his son’s well-being. His oldest son Robb was apparently doing a good job ruling over Winterfell, though Sandor doubted those news. Robb Stark was a boy Sandor would defeat without even drawing his sword. But the green boy had badly wanted this chance to rule by himself, he had probably been the one who convinced Eddard Stark to take the position of King’s Hand in the first place. It certainly hadn’t been out of a concern for the realm, though. The young wolf was ambitious, Sandor had to give him that. He wasn’t surprised Lord Eddard kept writing the boy every day.

Things got worse when the king learned the Targaryen girl in Essos got heavy with a Dothraki child. Robert wanted her dead, Ned wanted to leave her alone. He even resigned his position and wanted to leave for Winterfell. But before he managed to do so, he was attacked by assassins. Sandor had no idea why. He never cared for politics and it was getting more confusing by the day.

“Stand up, please, ser,” Grand Maester Pycelle bid Sandor.

“Not a ser,” Sandor snarled out of a habit, but he stood up and showed the fool how well he could walk now.

“Good,” Pycelle nodded. “It’s good. You seem to be back in full health now, ser.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you for weeks,” Sandor growled.

Pycelle didn’t listen to him. “I wish poor Lord Eddard had such a swift recovery as well.”

That got Sandor’s attention. “How is he?”

“Much better. He walks already, too. His sword arm is in a bad condition, though. It was an ugly incident," Pycelle stroked his flowing white beard and nodded ponderously. "Have you heard of some development in the case?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Two attempts of assassination in one family within such a short time…” Pycelle shook his had. “I guess there’s a more sinister side to Lord Eddard he doesn’t let us see.”

“Or he just pissed off someone sinister,” Sandor suggested.

“It is very kind of our King to have returned Lord Eddard to the office,” Pycelle continued with his wise blather. “He is very forgiving towards his friend, is he not?”

There was no sense in arguing with the old Grand Maester, he didn’t bother listing to Sandor anyway. As far as Sandor was concerned, he was glad the King was away boar hunting and Sandor didn’t have to hear his arguments with the Queen for some time.

Pycelle sighed. “I’ve never thought much about Maester Gislin, but he’s done a good job with your leg. Your wounds have completely healed, ser.”

“Who’s Maester Gislin?” Sandor asked.

“The man who saved your life.”

Sandor’s eyes widened. “What? When?”

“When you were saved from the fire, Maester Gislin treated your injuries. Who did you think had stitched up your leg?”

“You?”

“No, no, you were brought in here much later, remember? Gislin is Littlefinger’s maester and you stayed at Gislin’s house for weeks. Ser Meryn had to go and check on you every other day and when your condition improved, the Queen had you brought back to the Red Keep.”

Sandor actually remembered a maester. He hadn’t seen him, but in one of his dreams the maester had told Sandor that he was lying in his own bed. In another he heard him speak with Trant. Sandor had never thought about the maester, he’d focused much more on similar dreams about the Maiden. Similar dreams… they were similar, weren’t they? Those normal, sensible conversations felt more like memories than dreams. The Maiden… Sandor had seen her twice. Both times it looked as if he was lying in an ordinary bedchamber. The maester’s bedchamber.

“Does he…” Sandor cleared his throat. “Does Gislin live with a woman?”

The question earned him only a few chuckles. “No, no. The Mad King made quite sure Gislin would never again be interested in a woman.”

It took a moment to Sandor to understand. “He’s a eunuch?”

“He certainly is. But Gislin has done a good job with your leg, I’ll give him that.”

Sandor didn’t care about his leg, he had more important tasks ahead of him. “Where can I find the man?”

Sandor remembered a sweet voice, too sweet to be created by his own filthy mind. He remember a magical smile, too brilliant to come from him. He remembered soft touches, more tender than anything he’d ever known. Sandor’s hands were trembling as he swung up and settled into the saddle. The King had returned from the boar hunt in a merry mood and even now Sandor could hear him laughing. Sandor couldn’t care less. He avoided all the drunk fools and hastily left the Red Keep. He knew now where to go, he knew where to search. 

Sandor remembered the maester just as he remembered the Maiden. He remembered them. He remembered their conversations. The maester was real. The Maiden… Alayne. She’d said her name was Alayne, hadn’t she? Alayne. Alayne. A chirping little bird that had stroked Sandor’s burnt face and held his hand as he cried about Aenor. A sweet little bird with looks of the Maiden and voice from heavens. The maester was real. She had to be real, too. She had to.

Stranger was excited for a run and Sandor didn’t let him waste any moment. Too many people filled the streets, but they had enough sense not to stand him in his way. Sandor rushed through the city, he pushed Stranger hard. Soon they found a nice house with doors painted with colourful symbols. It was real. It was all real. Sandor already knew the house was opened for rich locals. He wasn’t a local, but he entered the small house with confidence. The maester seemed to have a remarkably comfortable life. It was strange that Gislin didn’t live near the whorehouse and offered services to others, too, but it was definitely a much safer area for pretty birds.

“You’re Gislin?” Sandor barked at a small man.

“Ah. Ser Sandor,” the man smiled, his provocation intentional, but the confidence and cheerfulness not very convincing. “It’s good to see you’re healthy again.”

People had a bad habit of not answering Sandor’s questions. But Sandor was not the Hound anymore and he recognized the voice well enough. “So you are Gislin.”

“I am.” The man had a normal, deep voice and he was in every way different than Varys. Sandor would have never guess he could be a eunuch.

“I came to thank you for saving my life,” Sandor snarled.

Now there was a bit of relief in the maester’s eyes. Strange. “No need to thank me, m’lord. That’s what I do.” 

“And it’s also what people pay you for. I’d like to settle the debt.”

“That’s very kind of you, m’lord, but it has already been settled by the crown.”

Sandor hadn’t expected that. It must have been the Lannisters who’d paid for him. That was quite nice, actually. They hadn’t punished him, they hadn’t called him a kinslayer, they’d brought him back to the Red Keep, they’d paid for him. Had they done it because they cared for an efficient killer or for Sandor himself? Had they been worried about him? They’d sent Trant to enquire about Sandor’s health after all…

“I want to pay you, too,” Sandor reached into his pouch, but he didn’t give the silver coin to the man just yet. “Tell me, did someone else help you with taking care of me?”

“Yes, Manno,” the man replied. “He’s a dimwit boy, can’t even speak, but he helps me around. He moved and washed you, too.”

“Someone else? A woman?”

The maester glanced to the door and back to Sandor. “No,” he said too curtly. “There’s no woman.”

A lie. Why was a maester lying to Sandor?

“I remember speaking to a woman. A redhead.”

Gislin shrugged. “You had a fever and many dreams. You kept calling me Stranger and offering me an apple, too. You’ve probably just remembered this one particular dream.”

Sandor narrowed his eyes. “You work for Littlefinger, don’t you? Couldn’t it have been a whore?”

It pained Sandor to even voice that thought, but it was worth it. Gislin’s eyes flashed with indignation, he clenched his teeth and briefly glanced to the doors. The girl was definitely real. And Gislin couldn’t stand Sandor suggesting such things about her, which was a good sign. But the girl wasn’t here. She could come back, though, couldn’t she?

“I go wherever I am needed,” the old man replied sternly. “But I never take patients to my private chambers. You were the first one and that was out of necessity. Only locals come into my house. There’s no woman, I assure you.”

Such a long, elaborate answer, so many lies. But for now, beating the truth out of the eunuch wasn’t the smartest solution. Sandor wasn’t a Hound anymore, he could be patient. So he paid the man, thanked him and left. Sandor waited, casually hiding behind a cart. The little bird had to come. She had to. Why else would Gislin have kept nervously looking to the doors? The man had lied, yes, but he had also been scared of something. Why? What in the seven hells was going on here? Sandor obviously needed to kill someone, he just needed to decide who was best suited for it. Sandor wasn’t the Hound anymore, he thought out his kills now. 

Sandor waited. And waited. And waited. Where was the damn girl? Why wasn’t she coming? She had to be real. She had to. The master was real, she had to be, too. Sandor still wasn't sure what to think about the man. According to Pycelle Gislin had worked in the Red Keep, taking care of people who were not attended by the Grand Maester himself. The Mad King had suspected Gislin had indecent thoughts about his patients, so he once decided on a whim to sort it out forever. That definitely made Gislin a perfect healer for the Littlefinger’s whorehouse, but it didn’t explain why the man lived here, offering his services to others, and why he was lying about the redhead. Did he want to keep her to himself? 

Sandor waited. And waited. He waited for hours, but then it became obvious the girl wasn’t coming after all. He’d been wrong about this. But only this, all his other assumptions had to be right. Sandor glanced once more towards the house, he sighed and decided to ride back to the Red Keep and think everything through. He had to form a proper plan and he needed to know more about this Gislin man.

Sandor turned around to go for Stranger, but he bumped into a small figure.

“Pardons, my lord,” he heard a sweet voice, as the girl walked away from him.

Sandor froze a little, but he grabbed the girl’s arm, unthinking. “Little bird,” he breathed out. The most beautiful blue eyes looked up, meeting his own gaze. “Little bird…”

Sandor pulled down the girl’s hood and smiled at the sight, his mouth twitching. She was real. The little bird was real. She was looking at him without flinching and she was warm and she smelled like the Maiden’s heaven of Sandor’s dreams. She was real. She was so real. Sandor suddenly felt an overwhelming need to kiss her. Could he kiss her? He wanted to kiss her. She was real. She was really real! 

“Good day to you, my lord,” she chirped. 

“Little bird…” he whispered.

“Have you fully recovered, my lord?”

“You… you used to call me Sandor, remember?” Sandor tried to speak softly, but instead his voice sounded even raspier than usual and his mouth twitched more than ever.

The girl blushed and lowered her lashes. “That was different.”

“Because you expected me to die then?” Sandor cupped her face and made her look up. The little bird’s beauty hadn’t been a creation of his feverish mind, she was real. He was touching her. One hand on her shoulder, the other cradling her cheek. She swallowed and he felt it. Sandor stroked her hair. It was so silky, he wanted to bury his face in it. 

“What are you doing here, little bird? 

“I live here,” she pointed to the house opposite to Gislin’s home. “I have been away, handing around herbs from Maester Gislin.”

“You work for him?”

“No, no, I just sometimes help him.”

“Then why were you taking care of me?” Sandor wanted to know.

“I was not, I just... My friend told me how you saved her and…” there were tears welling in her eyes, so Sandor stroked her face gently. He didn’t want to make her sad. “I thought my presence could help you.”

“It did. It helped so much, little bird.”

His words made her smile. Good. He wanted her to smile. Sandor realized he was still touching her, making a fool of himself, so he quickly let go of her. “Didn’t you husband mind it?”

“I don’t have a husband,” she peeped, blushing.

Sandor’s heart lept. “Your sweetheart then?”

“I don’t have one, my lord.”

She was free. And she was real. Seven bloody hells, she was so wonderfully real. “You’re called Alayne, are you not?”

“Yes, Alayne… Alayne Stone, my lord,” she lowered her lashes, embarrassed. Her parents hadn’t been married, why was she embarrassed because of it? Sandor’s brother had been a monster and Sandor wasn’t blushing because of it, either.

“Do you work here somewhere, Alayne?”

“No, I… I do not work. My father takes care of me.”

Good, that was good, Sandor knew all too well in what conditions most people in King’s Landing worked, he didn’t want Alayne to suffer like that. He walked her to the door, not really knowing what to say. What did other men talk about with beautiful girls?

“You look well, my lord, it is good to see,” she smiled at him. “I was worried about you.”

“You were?” Sandor gasped.

She nodded, her hair flowing in the slight breeze. His little bird had been worried for him. His… Well, they already knew each other, she had touched his face without hesitation, she knew everything about Sandor. Alayne knew… She knew the history behind his scars, she knew about Aenor, she knew about the Lannisters, the war, even the butcher’s boy. She knew everything. Seven hells, she had seen him cry, she had touched scars. Seven hells, seven bloody hells. What could she possibly think about him? Did she have him for a monster? Did she worry about him because of some misplaced pity? Sandor didn’t want pity from a silly little girl, what did he care for her anyway? Did the stupid girl think he cared?

“And what brings you to this area, my lord?” Alayne asked, curious.

“None of your business," he snapped. "Now fly away, little bird,” he opened the door, gently pushing her inside. “I’m sick of you peeping at me.“

Sandor looked down at the perfection in front of him, seeing the hurt expression in the girl's eyes. He swallowed. He blinked. And then he fled.


	4. Chapter 4

Sandor was healthy, sober and brotherless. He now knew he wasn’t crazy, he hadn’t dreamt the Maiden out, the girl was real and the rest was just a feverish dream. Sandor had never cared for this girl Alayne, he’d just imagined things about a non-existing goddess. Because of fever. Now that everything was clear, he could forget about the girl again and move on with his life. He didn’t care for her. Sandor Clegane never fell for anyone. He wasn’t even attracted to this girl, he couldn’t be. Sandor had only ever bought whores much older than him, experienced. Mature women were not shrieking when seeing his scars, they weren’t scared of a big cock, they could look Sandor in the eyes. Sandor didn’t like young girls, he never had. This girl was very young, she couldn’t be even twenty. And she was too pale and too skinny with small teats. Alayne had a woman figure, alright, he couldn’t deny that, she had nice hips and her teats actually suited her slender frame. Fine, her body wasn’t bad. It was quite nice, actually. Not that Sandor cared. Alayne still looked too frail. Did she eat enough? Her father took care of her, but obviously not well enough, otherwise he wouldn’t have allowed her to wander around the city with some damn herbs. He wasn’t giving her enough food, either.

The little frail bird wasn’t scared of Sandor. She had even touched him. Touched his scars. No other woman had ever done that, even Sandor himself felt sick whenever he just accidentally brushed his fingers over the scars. And she had touched him. She’d touched him. She’d stroked his cheek as he had cried, she’d brushed his hair, she’d washed his face... Sandor blinked the tears away. Why had she done it? How could she have born it? She’d held his hand and whispered soothing words, to him. She had. He remembered it.

A tear slowly rolled down Sandor’s cheek, and glided into the dents of his scarred face. Alayne knew everything about him and yet she was still able to look him in the eyes and chirp at him politely. Her eyes were so kind and honest, her smile so warm, her voice impossibly soothing. She spoke with him as if he was just another man with a full face and normal body. She knew about the people he’d killed, she knew about the boy he’d murdered, she knew whom he served, she knew about his drinking and whoring, she knew about his anger. She knew exactly how revolting his scars were, how he could never eat cleanly because of his ruined lips. And she talked to him anyway. She smiled at him. Why did she do it? She was stupid, there was no other explanation. It was stupid not to fear him.

Sandor wiped the tears away. He was bloody stupid, too, weeping like a babe because of a young girl. He didn’t even fancy her. She had stupidly red hair and too innocent blue eyes and a sad mouth and all in all, she was... pretty. Stupid. Yes, she was stupid. 

She’d shaved him. Sandor swallowed. It would never happen to him again, would it? No other woman would ever come close to his ugly face. Why hadn’t he enjoyed it more, why had he wasted time with a fever instead of committing Alayne’s every single caress to his memory? He could still pay her. He could pay her to shave him again. She wasn’t a working girl, but she surely wouldn’t mind having a coin for a new... something. What did girls like her actually buy? Sandor was quite convinced the girl was buying neither wine nor whores. What did she buy then? Nothing, of course, a bastard girl was glad enough for not having to work. Sandor clenched his fists. It wasn’t fair, Alayne should have everything. 

Sandor didn’t understand why the girl kept haunting him. Whenever he saw something interesting, he wondered what Alayne would have thought about it. Whenever he tasted something good, he wanted her to try it, too. Whenever he heard music, he wanted her to enjoy it with him and perhaps even sing. When he closed his eyes, he saw her. When he opened them, he missed her. He couldn’t get Alayne out of his head.

Even when the merchants came to the Red Keep, Sandor looked at the silks and gowns worrying Alayne didn’t have enough of those things. And he couldn’t help but pay attention to what was being said.

“You need more ribbons, child,” the septa reminded the she-wolf.

“I don’t want them,” Arya frowned. 

“A true lady needs to lead with example, both in manners and in appearance. Your appearance is more than a little lacking, Arya.”

“Who says I want to be a true lady?”

Why did women need so many ribbons? Did Alayne have enough ribbons? Of course she didn’t. She didn’t have enough of anything. 

The septa wasn’t finished with her speech. “Your mother had a similar shawl to this,” she showed Arya something else. “It is an essential piece of northern wardrobe, do you recognize the pattern? It is fit a true lady.”

“Well, then it’s not for me, is it?”

“It is your obligation to be a proper lady, Arya. You are the last woman in your family, why must you insist on disrespecting the memory of your mother?”

“I’m not disrespecting her by being myself!”

“You are a lady and you are not behaving as such. When you truly become yourself, a lady like your mother and sister, then I will have no complaints, child.”

Did Alayne have enough shawls? The weather was still warm, but it wouldn’t last long. The evenings were already getting colder. Did Alayne have something to wear on cold days? Sandor had seen her in a remarkably modest, but thin dress. It was a cheap dress and it wasn’t enough to keep her warm. She didn’t have much more than that, did she? It was madness. Her father should have been happy he’d been blessed with such a perfect little daughter and act accordingly. But he didn’t.

Sandor already disliked Alayne’s father. Sandor didn’t need to know anything about the man to guess the history behind Alayne’s origins. Alayne lived in an expensive part of the city, but seemingly alone. Alayne’s father was obviously a wealthy merchant, who had raped Alayne’s mother. That’s how it almost always went and Alayne’s mother must have been remarkably beautiful to have such a daughter. She was probably dead by now, as Alayne certainly didn’t seem to be living with her. But the rich bugger hadn’t got any children from his wife, did he? And when he learned that his pretty victim had a pretty daughter, he decided to keep the child for himself. But Alayne was now like a little bird imprisoned in a golden cage, mistreated by everyone as every other bastard, just useful to her father. No wonder she was scared. She found enjoyment in helping the sick and assisting the cockless maester, but she was still a defenceless little bird. Of course she was scared. Even Sandor was scared just thinking about her vulnerability. But if anybody thought Alayne Stone was without a real protector, they were badly mistaken. Sandor was not the Hound anymore, of course, he’d promised that to Alayne. He was not the Hound, he was now sober when killing.

The bloody septa was a cheap, too. She didn’t want to buy the best things for Arya, because the she-wolf wasn’t apparently being a lady enough. The septa probably thought she was punishing the girl, but she only proved how stupid she herself was. Arya was like Aenor, she couldn’t care less about her ribbons. The septa opted for a cheaper shawl and cheaper ribbons, immensely satisfied with her own educative methods. Cersei would be satisfied, too. The daughter of the Warden of the North didn’t get the most expensive things and Cersei would sure have a good laugh about it. 

The merchant was disappointed, though, and he even let it show on his expression when septa turned to a jeweller. Myrcella had made a much greater purchase just moments ago, the man must have expected to get a similar profit from the future queen. 

At least Joffrey was happy to buy himself new hats and feathers. While everyone was paying attention to the prince, Sandor turned to the disappointed merchant.

“I’ll take this,” he growled.

“Ser?” the tiny man looked up.

“I’ll buy the shawl. And the ribbons.”

“Oh,” the man gaped at him in surprise. “Oh! Of course, of course. You won’t regret it, ser, it is the best quality, I assure you. Let me show you...” 

Sandor glanced around, not wanting to draw attention to himself. “Just pack it and shut your mouth,” he snarled at the man.

“Of course, of course. And does m’lord want to buy a net, too?”

“A net? What’s that for?”

“For the hair, ser. A hairnet.”

“Hair?” Sandor remembered the glossy waves of auburn hair. “Sure, give me that, too.”

“I have a choice of...”

“The best one.”

“Ser?”

“Just give me the best one you have.”

It seemed to surprise the man. “Well... the best one is a jewel, really,” he stammered.

“So what? I want it.”

“Oh. It is the most resplendent hairnet studded with pearls, as you can see,“ the man started showing his goods again. „I have a simpler one, too, for half the price...”

“Will you give me the best one or not?” Sandor asked with irritation. Alayne really needed that hairnet, he decided. He’d never seen her wear any jewels. She didn’t need them to shine, of course, but if anyone deserved them, it was her. She should have the best things. Sandor wouldn’t let a scrawny merchant take that away from his little bird.

The hairnet was very expensive, but it was worth it. It was an exquisite thing, fragile and beautiful. The pearls would contrast nicely with the girl’s hair. Would it make Alayne smile? Sandor hoped she’d smile at him. He didn’t know much about women’s tastes, but the things he’d bought seemed quite nice. When he was alone with Stranger later, he checked the little packages once again, unsure whether the girl would like everything. Sandor wanted to make her happy, he didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable because of badly chosen gifts. But as he had no experiences in this regard, there was no way of really knowing in advance. Sandor shook his head in resignation and headed towards the Cobbler’s Square. It was a windy day and Sandor could feel his scars getting irritated. They would be darker and more pronounced again, he knew. There was nothing he could do about it, either, so when he got off the horse, he just brushed his hair again and wiped his sweaty hands. He walked to Alayne’s door, hoping that she would see mostly the better side of his face and he wouldn’t ruin everything this time.

But before he could knock on the door, he heard a man’s voice from across the street. “You came to see me again, ser?” 

Sandor turned his had, his brows furrowing. Gislin. The lying eunuch had the nerve to speak to him. Sandor walked to him, looking down at the man in a manner that made even knights tremble with fear. Gislin didn’t tremble, he just smiled and Sandor wanted to punch him for that.

“You lied to me,” Sandor reminded the man.

“Did I?”

“You tried to keep Alayne away from me.”

Gislin narrowed his eyes. “I only tried to protect her, ser.”

The man was calling Sandor a ser on purpose just to provoke him. Luckily, Sandor was annoyed by everything else too much to care about titles. “Protect her?” Sandor snarled. “She took care of me and you think the first thing that I’d do is hurt her?”

“Not intentionally, perhaps,” Gislin said, the edge disappearing from his tone. “But your presence here can bring nothing but trouble to Alayne.”

“What?” Sandor snorted. “Are you so afraid she’ll fall for me and leave this place for good?” 

“No, that is really not what I was thinking,” the maester assured him with a derisive smile. “But if you truly care for the girl’s safety, you’ll leave now and let her be.”

“Oh, is that supposed to scare me?” Sandor let out a bark of laughter. “I don’t know you, Gislin, but I know exactly what sort of people associate themselves with Littlefinger. Alayne is not yours, you know? And you can bet your empty breeches I’ll keep her safe.”

The man laughed, too. “Keep her safe from what? Look around, my lord,” he said. “Have a good look. Have you seen these streets? Really seen them? Some of the richest merchants live here. Those who don’t need to be close to the glory of the court, those who want just a comfortable, peaceful life. We are far enough from the Flea Bottom and dangerous parts of the city, we live in the city centre, but people who don’t live here don’t have a reason to wander these streets.”

“So what?”

“The guards are everywhere. You can’t make a step here without being watched. People here are rich, they want to keep their riches safe. Alayne visits only the people she knows well and considers friends. There is no safer place for a girl like her than this. She doesn’t need you.”

The man talked too much and Sandor didn’t like it one bit. “We’ll see about that,” he turned around, walking to Alayne’s doors. Gislin really wanted to keep Alayne away from him, only strengthening Sandor’s resolve to protect the girl. Something rotten was happening in these streets, he could smell it. But he would keep Alayne safe. He owed her as much.

She opened the door herself, looking up at him shyly. She was obviously surprised to see him and greeted Sandor in a small voice.

“Good evening, little bird,” he tried to say pleasantly. 

“What can I do for you, my lord?” she peeped.

“Will you let me in?”

“Maester Gislin lives across the street, my lord, if you need any help...”

“I don’t. I came to thank you for your help during my recovery,” Sandor stepped inside, making Alayne jump away like a scared little rabbit. She wasn’t comfortable with him being at her home, but Sandor tried to look as trustworthy as possible. The longsword on his back wasn’t really helping the impression, so Sandor relaxed his posture and attempted a friendly smile. “You are alone at home?” 

“I am,” she cheeped.

“You should never admit that!” Sandor replied, his tone much harsher than intended. Seven hells. “It’s just...” he cleared his throat. “Never say to anyone that you are alone, little bird, do you understand?”

Alayne swallowed, but nodded. 

“You don’t live with anyone?” Sandor inquired.

“I... I do, but she is away now. She is coming back in a few days.”

“Your mother?”

“No, my mother has passed away,” Alayne looked down at the floor.

Sandor touched her shoulder, trying to take away her sadness. Alayne shivered slightly and Sandor realized she was wearing the same summer dress. The sodding father of hers wasn’t taking proper care of her. She was so thin, she should be wearing more layers than Sandor, not less.

“Why don’t you wear more clothes, girl?” Sandor barked at her.

“My lord?”

“The evenings aren’t warm enough anymore, do you even realize what that means?”

“The winter is coming,” she replied with conviction.

“It means you’ll catch a cold and die, if you don’t dress properly! Do you want that?” Sandor shook her.

“No, my lord.”

Sandor sighed, took out the shawl he’d brought with him and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Here. You have to take care of yourself before you take care of anybody else, girl.”

“My lord, what is...”

“A shawl,” Sandor interrupted her impatiently. “Have you never seen a shawl?”

“But it is a ladies shawl!”

“What about it? Enough of your chirping, little bird, are you warm now?”

“I am, my lord,” she tried to return him the sodding shawl.

“Keep it, girl,” he growled. “And here, you need some ribbons to tie on the sleeves, too,” he gave her the small package. “Gods know you need warmer sleeves.”

“But I cannot accept such expensive gifts, my lord!”

“Why not? What would I do with a ladies shawl?”

It was strangely comforting for Sandor to see Alayne wrapped in a shawl from him. She seemed to like it, she was just too damn polite to accept it without protesting. When they finally sat themselves down, she even touched the shawl, obviously admiring the softness. Sandor smiled to himself. He should have bought her a nice warm cloak, too. Next time.

“If I may, my lord...” she started nervously.

“What is it?”

“You live in the Red Keep, do you not?”

“Sure, you want to see it?” Sandor stroked the girl’s hand. It was so soft. Alayne was such an innocent little bird, Sandor didn’t want to see her among the Red Keep filth. Everyone would want to keep her to themselves. It would be much wiser for Sandor to keep her as far from the Red Keep as possible and visit her as often as he could. Sandor didn’t want anyone to know about the existence of this treasure.

“No, no, I mean... we have heard a lot of news about the King’s Hand. They say he’s been injured by assassins, is it true?”

“It is, but don’t worry, little bird, I killed his attackers and besides, it was politically motivated. They won’t hurt you.”

“You killed them?” Alayne’s eyes widened. “It was you who saved Lord Eddard’s life?”

“Sure.”

The revelation changed the girl’s expression completely. “You... you are so brave,” she breathed out, looking him in the eyes with admiration, suddenly squeezing both his hand.

Sandor wanted to say something, but his mind got too clouded. Alayne was alone with him, completely defenceless, and she was looking at him and touching him. Her eyes were welling with tears and yet they were smiling. She wasn’t a goddess, she was a woman and that somehow made it feel even more unreal. She was smiling at him. A real woman. Smiling at Sandor. Because of him.

“Little bird,” Sandor let out hoarsely. She was so devastatingly beautiful, he wanted to keep looking at her forever. She had beautiful, kind eyes and adorable little nose...

“Do you know something about his injuries?” she interrupted his thoughts.

“What?”

“Do you know about Lord Eddard’s injuries?”

Why in the seven hells were they still talking about Ned Stark? Sandor wanted to talk about Alayne herself. “He’ll live. Now tell me, what have you been doing today, little bird?”

“I have had an ordinary day, my lord,” she replied sheepishly. “I am sure yours was much more interesting.”

“It wasn’t. What do you like to do?”

“I... I like to read, when I have a chance.”

It was surprising that she had an access to something as expensive as books, but Gislin had a few of them, no doubt. Sandor would get her better books, though. “That’s nice, I used to read a lot when I was a child, too. What else do you like to do?”

“Pray,” she said.

Sandor snorted at that and her eyes widened again.

“I do not get to go to the Great Sept of Baelor perhaps,” she admitted defensively, “but the prayers of a bastard are just as worthy as those of a lord!”

Sandor stroked her hand apologetically. “Of course they are. You’d like to go to the Great Sept, little bird?”

“Everybody wants to go there.”

Sandor didn’t share the opinion, but he chose not to comment. “We’ll go together then.” 

“But that’s not possible!”

“Why not? I have a pew in the Great Sept, I can take with me anyone I want.”

“It wouldn’t be proper.”

“What’s improper about going to a sept? Do you want the pew to be empty?”

“But I am a bastard, my lord.”

“Don’t call yourself that, little bird,” Sandor growled. “Nobody worth worrying about will ever give a damn about your parents. And if we go together, nobody will even speak to you.”

“But it’s a place for nobles. The royal family, the Starks...”

“They are almost never there. We can go on the Mother’s Day, little bird,” Sandor already started forming a plan in his mind. He was convinced he could get a day off for himself. He would take Alayne out for a walk, they’d go to the sept, have a nice meal and she’d tell him all about herself. “The nobles will go to the royal sept at the Red Keep as usual, they won’t bother us there.”

“But I am a bastard!”

“Don’t say that, little bird,” he admonished her. 

“I don’t even have anything to wear to such a place...”

“Here,” Sandor nonchalantly threw the hairnet on the table, doing his best not to look eager for Alayne's reaction. “I’ll take care about the rest.”

“A hairnet?” Alayne blinked in surprise. “My lord, it is so very kind of you, but I can’t borrow this! The hairnet... Oh, no, those are real pearls!”

“It’s yours.”

“Mine? It must have cost... my lord, I cannot possibly accept this!”

Sandor shrugged. “Throw it away then. I have no use of it.”

“But...”

“Tell me, don’t you want to go to the Great Sept of Baelor, little bird? You can wear a pretty dress and all the jewels you deserve. And you can pray for all your friends, for your mother, even for the King’s Hand. Don’t you want that?”

She was chewing anxiously on her bottom lip. “Will he have any lasting problems?”

“What?”

“Will there be any lasting effects of Lord Eddard’s injuries?”

“His leg has healed well, but the Hand’s hand won’t be working any time soon.”

“So it is true,” she whispered brokenly, looking down. “Who do you think paid the assassins?”

“What does it matter?” Sandor put one finger under her chin and tipped her face up, forcing her to meet his gaze again “Little bird, you shouldn’t worry about some buggering lords, believe me, they aren’t worth your shit.”

“You can’t say that!” she blurted out, quickly averting her eyes again. “I beg forgiveness, my lord, but... but it’s an awful thing to say!”

“It’s the truth. Look at me, little bird.”

She didn’t. She was the one always looking him in the eyes, Sandor couldn't stand the thought of losing this, ruining the connection.

“Look at me!”

Alayne met his gaze, looking even more apprehensive than before. Sandor felt his scars twisting and mouth twitching. Was he scaring the little bird? “You can’t trust the lords, or the knights, you understand, girl?" he spoke in a calmer voice. "It’s not safe.” 

She was silent. Of course she was. Sandor understood it now. The girl thought the king was just, the knights were honourable, the queen was kind. She liked reading. She liked stories. Of course she did. She didn’t understand the dangers of the world. Seven hells, all it took was just one encounter with knights. Gregor had been so close to her home, it could have been her... He'd have killed her and raped her and killed her. She wouldn’t have run away, she didn’t know a knight was always a threat. Fuck. Why was she silent? Why didn’t she understand it?

“You really are just a stupid little bird, aren’t you?” he snarled.

He immediately regretted it. He didn’t want to scare her. He didn’t know why he was behaving like this around her, why he was nervous and overreacted all the time. He just wanted Alayne to be safe and happy. And to like him. But he kept ruining everything. He had been a dog for so long, he couldn't stop behaving like a bloody beast. He scared the girl. He did it again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that according to George R. R. Martin the Clegane lands are supposed to be located south-east of Lannisport. But Brotherhood without Banners was commanded to cross the Red Fork to go to Gregor’s Keep in the books, so I placed Clegane lands in the neighbourhood of Lefford lands and the Golden Tooth, on the border with riverlands. Because I can.

Alayne was confused. Clegane was a monster, everybody knew it. Everybody knew what he was capable of, Alayne best of all. And yet she wasn’t sure what to think any more. Clegane was able to call her the Maiden in one moment and a stupid chirping bird in another. She’d known him for more than two moon turns now and she still wasn’t sure whether he enjoyed her company, or hated her more than anyone else.

Clegane was a famous warrior, one of the most feared men in Westeros. But he’d saved Alayne’s dearest friend Linza and almost lost his life for it. When everybody was sure he’d die, Clegane cried in Alayne arms, saying he’d wanted to protect people, not butcher them. It almost broke her heart and she told him he was forgiven. He later called her a goddess, the Maiden and the greatest beauty in the world. Alayne knew it was just the fever speaking, but it was like something out of a song anyway. Clegane told her he’d do anything for her, he’d keep her safe from anything and anyone. He never wanted to let go of her hand. He told her so many sweet things. He often spoke of his family, too, he spoke about the guilt he felt over both of his siblings’ death. 

Alayne had heard enough about Clegane brothers to know they were monsters. Sandor himself told her that it was Gregor who had deliberately burnt his face when Sandor was just a little child. But Sandor cried for his brother anyway. Sandor said that he himself went through the worst pain only once in his life, when he got burnt, while Gregor had to suffer his entire life. And the fearsome Hound cried because of it, he cried for his brother’s pain, for his wasted life, for what they’d both become. Sandor Clegane cried and he didn’t look anything like the hateful man of Petyr’s stories. And Alayne started to think he wasn’t a bad man after all, there was still hope for redemption in him.

But then he got healthy, moved back to the Red Keep and returned only to tell Alayne that he was sick of her. And then again, he threw at her expensive gifts and called her stupid. He came to visit her seven times within six days, always bringing her more gifts and insulting her further, telling her awful things. She didn’t understand it one bit. Gislin thought Clegane was interested in her personally, but Alayne knew better than that. She was a bastard and Sandor Clegane was the prince’s sworn shield. He’d made it clear enough that he didn’t like her. He thought she was stupid, naïve, very stupid, blind, not careful enough, she’d get herself killed, she’d succumb to a horrible sickness, someone would steal her away and she’d die from being too bloody kind. He’d said many worse words than that, words so horrible Alayne didn’t even dare to repeat them in her own mind. Why was Clegane bringing her gifts at all?

“Alayne?” a soft voice rose her from her musings.

“Forgive me, Gislin, I am listening.”

“No, you’re not,” Gislin shook his head. “Alayne, we both know what happens when you disobey your father.”

“The gods punish such sins,” Alayne whispered. “I know. But why do they never punish only me, Gislin? It still haunts me. Ser Gregor went to Linza’s house only because his men noticed me and thought it was where I lived. I should have been the only one punished.”

Gislin never wanted to talk about it and this day was no different. “You should stop blaming yourself for that, Alayne.”

“But I have to. Father tried to save Linza’s family, but Gregor killed even his armed men. And it’s all my fault. I don’t understand it, why do the Seven let innocent people die, instead of me?”

Gislin looked away. “Well, whatever it is, the truth is you have to be more careful. And being alone with Clegane, what kind of madness is that? You know what a beast he is, you’ve heard him speak about his crimes as well as I did.”

“But he can be better, I am sure of it," Alayne insisted. "He is already very sweet sometimes.”

“Sweet?” Gislin gasped in shock. “Alayne, you’re talking about a ruthless murderer, don’t you realize it?”

“I know,” she agreed. “I know all about his past. But he is not the Hound any more, Gislin, and he deserves a chance.”

“Not from you.”

“Why not? I was bad, too, as a child, and father took me anyway and he gave me a chance for redemption. Sandor Clegane deserves the same.”

“And you think that’s why he comes to you every day? In search for redemption?” Gislin asked, sceptical.

“Well, I am the only person to whom he’s ever confided. Of course he comes to me. He has never hurt me, why do you think he’d start now?”

“I’m not saying he’ll hurt you,” Gislin granted. “At least not directly. But imagine, what will your father say to all of this?”

“Father wants me to be good and godly. Surely helping others is a part of it. Sandor Clegane is a sinner and he can be saved.”

The old maester sighed and rubbed his face with his hand. “Alayne, all things aside, do you truly believe your father will understand this? Just think about it. Do you want to risk displeasing him again for Clegane?”

Alayne bit her lip. Petyr was a very gracious man, but as any good father he was strict with her and she had to move four times only in the past three years, just because he thought her surrounding was a bad influence on her. This was the right place for her, she didn’t want to lose this home, these people. Alayne’s septa would be away for another fortnight and if Petyr heard about Alayne’s unusual conduct, he’d think she was using the opportunity to misbehave. She’d lose everything again.

“Well, Alayne?” Gislin urged her. “Do you want to risk that?”

“No, I don’t,” she whispered.

“So you’ll tell Clegane he shouldn’t come again, won’t you?”

Alayne bent her head in defeat. “I will.”

 

Alayne couldn’t sleep well, so she woke up early and spent the morning worrying about Clegane’s reaction. She tried to find the best words to tell him he shouldn’t come again, but she wasn’t sure he’d be interested in her explanation at all. What would he say to her? Would he be angry? Would he be sad? She wasn’t sure which was worse. Alayne liked to think that Clegane actually enjoyed her company. He was awfully rude, yes, and he often scared Alayne. Even though he was trying to be better and leave the Hound in the past, he still looked more murderous than repentant. But he was trying, genuinely trying. Clegane wasn’t all bad. He’d suffered terribly in his life and he had some good qualities, too, like trying to keep Arya Stark safe. Clegane claimedthat the prince was unbelievably cruel and the whole betrothal was a mistake. It was a huge comfort for Alayne to know that there was someone who knew about the dangers, knew the prince and yet cared about Arya’s well-being. 

It would pain Alayne to lose this connection to the Red Keep. She didn’t want to risk opening this topic with Petyr again. It was enough how hurt he had been when she suggested that she could at least have a look from distance at Lord Stark arriving. Petyr had almost cried, thinking he was losing her. It was silly, of course, Alayne knew her place, knew she had a better life than she deserved. She was very grateful to Petyr. Alayne couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the hate in Ned Stark’s eyes and she knew he’d hate her more than anyone because of his wife’s death. But she didn’t explain this to Petyr, she didn’t want to open the old wounds, so she never mentioned any of the Highborns again. But Clegane, he liked to talk. He had to stand still and silent most of the time, so in the end of the day he was eager to have a normal conversation with anyone, even a bastard girl from another side of the city. Whenever he came for a visit, he showered her with dozens questions, but he was particularly pleased whenever she asked him something, too. She could talk with him about the Starks as much as she liked, he never complained about it.

Clegane saw Arya every day, he knew Jeyne Poole, but he didn’t tell Alayne how the girls looked these day, not even whether they were pretty, or not. When Alayne pressured Clegane, he only told her that their eyes looked nothing like hers and their hair definitely wasn’t auburn. It was a very unsatisfactory response, but luckily he gave her many other information. Arya still wasn’t a skilled seamstress, she still rebelled often. She was more clever and less trusting than Robb. And she often mentioned her sister. She did. After all those years, Arya kept mentioning her. Did she miss her? Did she hate her?

Now Alayne would lose this, she’d lose the friendly conversations of their evenings. Well, it hadn’t been always that friendly. Clegane was probably glad to have someone to talk to openly, but Alayne didn’t doubt he visited her mostly out of gratitude. He didn’t hide his contempt for Alayne’s life of a commoner. She lived in a rich area, but she was still just a bastard. It hurt her when Clegane kept telling her she wasn’t eating enough, she wasn’t wearing good enough dresses. He kept insulting her and she had to bear it with humility. He appreciated her company and yet he hated himself for enjoying the company of a bastard, didn’t he? 

Clegane was often awful to Alayne, but she always reminded herself that he was trying to be a better man. He had a long journey ahead of him and who else would give him help, if not Alayne? Alayne wanted to help him, she did. But Gislin was right, she was risking too much, Petyr would never understand. Perhaps she could recommend Clegane her septon. Indeed, it was the best solution for Clegane. Alayne didn’t have much left to offer Clegane anyway. Septons knew more about redemption.

Alayne had been looking forward to attending a service in the Great Sept, but it was indeed too dangerous to appear with Clegane in public. She had been seen in public with Linza and Linza’s comely brother only once and how horribly it ended up. She’d only bring Clegane misfortune, she always brought everyone misfortune. 

When Alayne heard a knock on her door, she quickly wiped away her tears. Clegane’s face was as stern as ever, but his eyes were smiling at her brightly. “Good morning, little bird,” he stepped inside. “I know I came early, but perhaps I can help you with something?”

“My lord,” she swallowed. She still wasn’t sure how to tell him. Better be quick about it. She had to get it off her chest as soon as possible. “I… I beg forgiveness, my lord, but I cannot go with you to the Sept.”

“What in the seven...” he rasped and looked her over. “Come, little bird, sit down,” he pulled out a chair for her, making her sit down in it. “You’re shaking, girl, what’s the matter? What’s happened?”

“Nothing, my lord, I just cannot go with you.”

He kneeled next to her chair, capturing her hand in his. “Why?”

“I don’t have my father’s permission, my lord.”

He laughed in relief. “Is that the problem? We can go to him right now, little bird,” he suggested. “I’ll explain to him everything, it’s about time I met him anyway, I’ve got something for him, too. Where does he live?”

“No!” Alayne yelped. “No, please...”

He scowled again. “Little bird, what are you afraid of?”

“I can’t disobey my father, I can’t.”

“What does he do to you, girl?” the huge man asked, dabbing her tears away with the softest handkerchief. Why did Clegane have a handkerchief? He hadn’t had such thing with him when he got injured. And Alayne had never seen a warrior with a handkerchief anyway, even Lord Stark never carried anything like it with him. “Does he beat you?” he asked.

“No, no, father very good to me. I just don’t want anything bad to happen to anyone.”

“Nothing bad will happen, little bird, I’ll keep you safe. I just need to know what is the matter, what are you afraid of?”

“I just… I can’t go to the sept with you.”

“Do I scare you so much?” he asked. Sadness shadowed his eyes.

“No, I’m not scared of you,” she assured him. “But the Seven will be angry if I disobey my father.”

He was frozen, staring at her wordlessly, and it was worrying her further. She never knew what he’d do or say next. He would get angry again, wouldn’t he?

“Do you understand?” Alayne asked in a small voice.

“You’re not?” he breathed out. “You are not scared of me?” 

“No, my lord, of course not.”

He was so close to her she could see the texture of his scars and the thickness of his lashes. Clegane was as tall kneeling as she was sitting down an it was very disturbing. 

“Of course,” he whispered. He stroked her cheek, the size of his hairy hand making her feel even smaller. Their noses almost touched, but then he remembered himself and quickly pulled away, clearing his throat, “I mean... I’m not scared of you, either,” he blurted out before his eyes widened. “I… fuck,” he got flustered and stood up abruptly. “What’s with this fearful chirping anyway?” he thundered then, scowling again. Alayne looked up in surprise. She had never seen a man whose moods could change so fast. “Who gives a damn about your father, what do you yourself want to do, girl? Do you want to go, or not?”

Alayne swallowed. She suddenly felt very silly. Of course the man was angry, it was shockingly improper, crying in front of him, having a the prince’s sworn shield kneel next to her. She couldn’t tell him that whenever she befriended someone, something horrible happened to them. He would think she was cursed. And perhaps it was true, the Seven still hadn’t forgiven Alayne for Catelyn Stark’s death and she kept only adding to the list of her unforgivable sins. 

“The Seven won’t forgive me if I disobey my father,” she stood up, trying to explain herself once again. “And he doesn’t want me to meet with any man.”

Clegane’s mouth twitched. “What man?” 

“Any man.”

“Yes, but what man do you want to be meeting with?”

Sansa blinked, not understanding. “I was talking about you.”

“Oh,” his face went blank and he swallowed. “Me.” He took a deep breath and looked at her, his mouth twitching even more. “Then why are you shaking, little bird?” his hand clasped her shoulder. “I won’t let anybody hurt you, I told you,” he said as softly as his raspy voice allowed him. “If you don’t feel safe here, I’ll take you elsewhere right away. I’ll take care of you.”

“No, not, that’s not possible!” Alayne was horrified. “My… my father is good to me.”

“Who is it then? Who are you scared of? Little bird, if anyone is threatening you, I swear, I’ll...” he started in a menacing voice that always scared her.

She quickly interrupted him before he could get angry again. “No, no! Everyone is very kind to me, my lord, I’ve been very lucky. I just don’t want to displease the gods by being disobedient.”

“And you think the gods will be displeased if you go to their greatest sept?”

Alayne bit her lip. She didn’t have an answer to that. “I don’t know,” she admitted quietly. “I only want to do the right thing,” she fell silent. It was true, this was something completely different. She wasn’t meeting with Linza and her brother for mindless chatter. She wanted to pray in the Great Sept. Surely the Seven wouldn’t ever punish her for that, would they? The gods had given her an opportunity to visit the greatest place of worship, who was she to reject it? “Do you think it’s the right thing?” she wondered.

“If you want to go, then it is.”

Alayne lowered her lashes. “I should change then.”

Clegane smiled and nodded. 

Alayne had luckily tried the dress on before, as it was a much more complicated design than she’d ever worn. She’d seen Catelyn Stark get dressed countless times, but the fashion had changed in recent years quite a bit and Alayne struggled for a moment with the brocade foresleeves. The struggle was worth it, though. The dress fit her like it was made for her and it was much more delicate than the finest northern dresses of Lady Catelyn. The blue fabric seemed to shimmer with a light of its own, even in the dimness of the room. Alayne couldn‘t believe that she was wearing something so beautiful. She needed to see herself in the mirror. She didn’t have one in her room, because her septa thought it immodest, so she quickly opened the door, hurrying to the mirror. 

Clegane didn’t say anything as he saw her approaching, but the intensity of his gaze made her very nervous.

“What do you think, my lord?” Alayne couldn’t help but ask.

He didn’t reply. She shouldn’t have asked, it sounded as if she wanted to hear his compliments. She did want to hear one compliment or two, but Clegane unfortunately wasn’t one to give them. “What will we tell people, if they ask who I am?” Alayne tried to improve the impression.

“They won’t.” He swallowed. “You look...”

She stepped in front of the mirror. She looked different. She looked like a lady. She looked like Sansa Stark.

“You look like you can be anything you want, little bird,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. Alayne couldn’t decide whether it was a good sign, or not.

“I am not worthy of such clothes,” she admitted.

“Stop it,” he growled, a threat lingering in his voice.

“I beg your forgiveness, my lord, I meant no disrespect,” she explained. “You have been most generous to me, even though I am nothing but a bastard.”

His eyes flashed again and mouth twitched. There was the anger again. A man like him shouldn’t have been associating himself with people like Alayne Stone, of course, so he hated to be reminded of it. He’d been in care of a common maester, a dimwit boy and a bastard girl. He was grateful, but he probably felt disgraced, too.

“Stop it,” he barked out. “You’re the only truly noble woman in this buggering city, no matter what your name is.”

Alayne shivered. She was not a noble woman. Her name was Alayne Stone. She was a natural daughter of Petyr Baelish. She was not a noble woman. Her name was Alayne Stone. “Why are you saying that, my lord?”

“Because it’s true. You think those rich buggers in the Great Sept go there because of the Seven? You think anyone in the Red Keep would hold a dying man’s hand, unless they saw a profit in it? Of course not. You’re more of a lady than the queen,” he rasped, his eyes burning into hers. Alayne lowered her lashes and Clegane snickered. “But no less of a stupid bird, are you?” he mocked. “Accepting every insult they tell you, repeating it dutifully. What else will you let people do to you, huh? Will you help them cut your throat, too?”

What had infuriated him again? His behaviour was always so confusing. “I did not mean to displease you, my lord, I beg forgiveness.”

“Stop it,” he shook her. “Don’t you see it?” he pointed to the mirror. “Don’t you see what you do, who you are?

Alayne was fighting the tears. “I beg forgiveness, my lord.”

“Seven bloody hells,” he fumed, but just as suddenly as he’d flared up in anger, he calmed himself down, too. “No, don’t cry, little bird,” he pleaded. “I’ll keep you safe, no one will treat you badly again. Don’t cry, girl. Don’t cry.”

“I am not, my lord. I… I should do my hair.”

“Of course. Do you need help?”

“No, my lord, you are very kind. Can I offer you something to eat or drink?”

“No, just do your hair. Go on, girl,” he sat himself down, his eyes glued to her.

She starred at him for a moment. Did he intend to watch her? He did. He really did. He kept watching her as she brushed her hair, he didn’t as much as blink when she braided it and coiled it and bound it in the hairnet. Alayne tried to do something different with her hair this time and she was quite satisfied with the result. She didn’t usually wear her hair up and even now she left enough loose locks to show she was a maiden. But the hairstyle was elaborate enough to match the beauty of the dress and the exquisitely fashioned pearl hairnet glistened in the morning sun, creating a nice contrast against Alayne’s auburn hair. As soon as Alayne was done, Clegane stood up again.

“You’re missing something,” he rasped into her ear, his fingers ghosting over the exposed skin of her neck.

“My lord?” she turned to him, only to see a pearl brooch in his hand.

“I got some of our family heirlooms yesterday,” Clegane explained. “My grandfather had this made for my grandmother in Stoney Sept and since you lived there for a few years, I thought you could like it.”

“My lord, I am not worthy...”

He clenched his jaw and Alayne stammered. “I… Is it the grandfather who preferred to sleep in the kennel?” she artfully changed the subject. 

His mouth opened in surprise. “I told you about that, too?”

“You did. I think it's wonderful that he taught you how to tame animals, it was such a beautiful story. Your grandparents must have been very sweet people.”

He nodded stiffly, but then the furrows in his forehead deepened again. “What does it matter?” he grunted. “They’re dead now anyway, just like everybody else, aren’t they?”

“It does matter, because it is a great honour for me to wear their jewel,” Alayne said softly, pinning the brooch to her bodice.

Clegane’s mouth twitched, but it was a smile forming on his ill-favoured face this time. “You haven’t changed your mind then?” he asked, hopeful. “You’ll go with me?”

Alayne looked up at him, smiling. “I will.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sandor helped Alayne to climb the stairs of the Great Sept. The girl wasn’t used to wearing such heavy skirts and he wasn’t used to walking around King’s Landing without his armour. While she probably found it exhausting to walk in her new clothes, Sandor felt oddly light and full of energy. Alayne hadn’t commented on his new clothes yet, so he kept wondering whether she liked it or not. Sandor didn’t want there to be a barrier of armour between them, but it would take some time getting used to the wearing such light clothes. 

Everybody was looking at them. Well, everybody was pretending not to be looking, but Sandor saw the shock, the envy, even the desire in people’s eyes. Nobody could overlook Alayne’s beauty and grace, but everybody noticed Sandor first.

“It didn’t take him long,” one woman noted bitterly.

“And what did you expect?” her husband replied quietly. “Even a dog can have any beauty, if he has fourty thousand golden dragons.”

“A beauty?” the whispering now sounded even more annoyed. “Do you think her beautiful?”

“Well...”

Sandor looked at the girl on his arm. She wasn’t listening to any of it, she was too busy admiring everything around her. All the glory was reflected in her eyes and the Sept had never looked more impressive. Alayne was like a little bird from heavens, looking in wonder around her, touching the statues ever so softly, her attention jumping from one thing to another. She touched Sandor, too, he was the only man in the sept whom she was touching. She wasn’t touching the pretty sons of merchants, she wasn’t touching golden haired soldiers, she was holding Sandor’s arm. His arm and only his. Did it make her feel safe? Did she like to touch his arm? 

The front rows of the sept were completely empty as the royals and most nobles celebrated in the Red Keep. If they were in a celebratory mood at all. Tyrion Lannister had appeared in King’s Landing in the morning and Ned Stark had immediately accused him of plotting to kill his son Bran, so perhaps the Lannisters and Baratheons had better things to do now. Sandor on the other hand, Sandor had Alayne. She was walking gracefully as a queen and her expression remained as poised as ever, but he knew she was silently panicking. The more anxious she was, the more she clung to Sandor. She’d told him already she’d never sat in the front rows of any sept, and yet Sandor hadn’t realized before how much it actually meant to her. She was shaking now.

“No need to be worried, little bird.”

She looked around fearfully. “My lord, I don’t belong...”

“Shhh,” he stopped in his tracks to tenderly stroke her cheek, earning a gasp from behind him. Good. “You want to be here, girl?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then it’s exactly where you belong,” he helped her sit down by his side.

Alayne didn’t seem much calmer, but she was obviously just as thrilled as she was nervous. And Sandor was glad that she sought comfort from him. She was often looking up to see his reaction. She was trusting him more and more by each passing day and it warmed Sandor’s heart.

The buggering nobles around them were watching Alayne as if she was a bloody animal. Or a piece of meat. Sandor was starting to doubt his reason in bringing the girl here, among the rich filth of King’s Landing. Why had he done it? To make her happy, of course, the girl had been dreaming about attending a service in the Great Sept all her life. But was it wise to let people know about her?It wasn’t. It wasn’t wise at all. And yet, it felt so good to be seen with her, to walk with her on his arm. It felt good when people gasped and assumed all sorts of things about them. Why had Sandor done it?

“There is the High Septon!” Alayne breathed out. Sandor didn’t look at the man, he kept his eyes on the girl. She was truly happy, it was worth it. Sandor would keep her safe from everyone. It didn’t matter that people saw them together, at least they knew they shouldn’t ever bother this girl. She was his. What? No, of course she wasn’t his, but people didn’t know it, did they? And why wasn’t Alayne his anyway? Well, Sandor didn’t care for her, of course, so why should she be. 

Sandor scowled. She wasn’t his. She wasn’t his anything. She’d never be his anything. Seven hells. Why was he thinking about this? These thoughts were spoiling his day. And this would be a good day, he had everything planned. First the sept, then he’d take the girl for a ride. He’d taken food with him, too, even her favourite lemon cakes. Sandor always remembered a painting from the book his mother had read to him. There was a man and a lady sitting on a meadow. He was playing a lute and singing, while she was eating grapes. Alayne wasn’t like Cersei and women at the court, she probably dreamed about such things. Sandor couldn’t sing of course, but he could do other things. And hopefully Alayne would like to see his favourite spot by the river. It was such a beautiful, peaceful place, just outside of King’s Landing, but nobody except Sandor seemed to know about it. It could be their spot.

Women like Alayne had horrible lives, just because their parents weren’t married, people kept abusing and hurting them. Almost all bastard girls were raped long before they even flowered, they were the easiest prey. Sandor wasn’t sure whether it was Alayne’s case as well, she lived in a good street with her septa after all, but she’d experienced something horrible, Sandor was sure of it. Alayne had said everybody was kind to her, but Sandor didn’t believe it one bit. There was a fear in the girl, a great fear. Sandor wanted her to tell him what was scaring her. He could help her, he’d do anything. But he needed to gain her trust first, no matter how much time it took. And today his sole purpose was to make her happy. Why was her happiness so important to him? He’d never seen anything so magical as Alayne’s smile, it brightened everything around her. Of course he wanted to make her happy, it was completely reasonable.

Alayne loved old tales and songs, she didn’t see they were full of lies. The tales were made for fools, who didn’t want to see the world for what it was. It would get the girl killed one day. She’d fall for a comely boy who’d know enough sweet words and he’d hurt her. Sandor clenched his fist just thinking about it.

Songs were stupid. How often did people sing about knights riding with women on one horse for days? Knights in armour? It had been even painted countless times, often with a woman in the front. What a load of shit that was. What about the poor horses? Did no-one care about their health? Sure enough, Sandor had taken other people on his horse, too, when he needed to quickly get someone to safety. But how was it supposed to be comfortable, how could people ride like this for days and again, what about the horses? Lies, lies, lies. Everything was just a lie, as usual. 

But Sandor outsmarted the songs. He wasn’t wearing his armour and since Alayne weighed less than his jousting armour, Stranger wouldn’t have to bear more weight than he was used to. And Sandor had had a new saddle made for his rides with Alayne, he hadn’t satisfied himself with an average pillion saddle. No, no, Alayne would be sitting behind him more comfortably than the queen. And Stranger’s back and hips wouldn’t suffer, either. Stranger was used to having the best saddles in the realm, he’d be really pissed otherwise. Stranger was sometimes such an arse, Sandor had to smile just thinking about it. Alayne wasn’t used to riding, but she could hold onto Sandor as much as she wanted. Would she wrap her arms around him? Or would she just rest her hand on his hip? Alayne and Stranger would love each other, there was no doubt about it. Sandor had many rides planned out for them. 

“Are you sure?” Sandor overheard a man whispering.

“Of course I am, my brother lives in the Red Keep. She’s from Lys.”

“Ah, I knew the Hound had to buy her.”

“No, no, she’s a noble, don’t you see it?”

“Are there any nobles in Lys?”

“If she wasn’t a noble, they wouldn’t let her stay in the Red Keep. Her father needs money, so he’s given her to the Hound.”

Sandor wasn’t wearing an armour, but he still had his sword, did no-one realize it? The mass was boring as usual, Sandor wouldn’t mind stretching out a bit. Chopping up a man or two.

“Poor girl, she’ll end up like all other Clegane brides.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about it, she must really like the Hound’s cock. Just the way she’s looking at him...”

Sandor snapped his head to Alayne, meeting her gaze. How long had she been watching him? She smiled at him gently and squeezed his hand. What did it mean? Did others think she was looking at him with fondness? Was she? 

Why did Sandor even care? He never cared about girls. He wasn’t made for such shit, he wasn’t like all the buggering fools in books and stories. He’d thought only once he’d fallen in love, because he thought the girl was the Maiden. But Alayne wasn’t the Maiden, so he wasn’t in love, there was no magic, nothing that could make him so soft. Right? Right.

But he kept dreaming about her. He missed her as soon as he paid his farewell. He thought about her when he stood guard, he thought about he when he ate, he especially thought about her when he washed himself. He got hard thinking about her, which was very disturbing. Sandor’s desires had never been so specific, he’d never been fixated on a one particular woman day after day. But he didn’t desire this girl, did he? He’d just fooled himself into thinking she was a goddess and everybody wanted her, but he didn’t actually want the goddess, he wanted Alayne, he… what? No, no. He’d fooled himself into thinking she was a goddess, but he wanted the goddess, not Alayne, and because Alayne wasn’t a goddes, he wanted her to be his goddess. What? What was he thinking? Bugger the goddesses, he was confused. He didn’t want anyone, he wanted wine.

Sandor glanced at Alayne. Seven hells, but she was a beauty. She was looking around with her eyes wide open, glowing with joy, just because she got into the bloody sept. Sandor wanted to kiss her, feel that smile against his lips. He wanted… Wine, he wanted wine. That was his lover, wine. How would wine taste on her lips? Seven hells, something had happened to him. Sandor clearly had to be ill to keep imagining kissing Alayne. He’d never imagined kissing Cersei and he’d never been around any woman more than around her. The mere thought of kissing Cersei actually made him sick. He’d never imagined kissing any particular woman, he’d always only imagined a shapeless woman, a creation of his own mind, a woman who’d love him. Now he wanted a kiss from Alayne. Why? Perhaps it was a proof that he did not actually care for her. He always imagined fucking pretty women he liked, making them wet, not kissing them. He dreamt about kissing Alayne much more than about fucking her, so he obviously didn’t care about her. Good. That was good.

But Sandor did want to fuck Alayne. He wanted to both kiss her tenderly and fuck her senseless. He’d taken himself in hand just thinking about it once or twice. Every day. Why? Good question, he wished he knew the answer. Or perhaps not. Alayne wasn’t a whore, he shouldn’t be thinking like that about her. But he didn’t think about her the same way he thought about whores. He wanted Alayne to want him, he wanted her to do only whatever she wanted, he wanted to do to her whatever she desired. He’d dreamt about her shyly asking him to lick her cunt. He himself really wanted to lick Alayne’s cunt, something he’d never desired before. He imagined her holding his head between her soft thighs, trembling and moaning under his touch. She’d beg him to fuck her. And Sandor would do just that, he’d claim her, come inside her. If any man had ever touched Alayne against her will, she’d forget about it in Sandor’s arms. He’d be so gentle with her she’d think she was in seven heavens, too. Well, alright, perhaps he wouldn’t be able to be so patient, but she’d love it nonetheless. He’d fuck her so hard her moans would be heard across the city and she’d dig her nails into his back, leaving bloody scratches across his back. Sandor wouldn’t mind. He actually liked the idea of bearing a different sort of scars, scars of passion. Sandor wanted to fill Alayne with his seed, fill her so much she’d grow heavy with his child. He… what the fuck was he even thinking about?! Stupid dog. Not a dog anymore. What? Stupid… seven hells, he didn’t even know what to call himself these days, the girl had ruined everything. This whole thing was bloody infuriating and he didn’t even know what this bloody thing actually was.

Love. What? No. He was not in love with the girl. There was no reason to be in love with her. Except that she was so damn kind and beautiful and clever and she had a sweet little mole on her throat that needed to be kissed. He didn’t love her. What good would it be to love her anyway? He couldn’t marry her, could he? Well, Gregor was dead, Tywin wanted Sandor to take over the Clegane’s Keep and produce many Clegane children. Sandor had never planned on becoming Lord Clegane, but producing children didn’t seem like such a bad idea now. If Sandor decided to take Tywin’s offer, the queen wouldn’t go against her father. Sandor would be able to return to Clegane’s Keep almost immediately and he’d be even advised to take a wife. Tywin didn’t want the Clegane bloodline to end with him after all. Sandor would be free to marry Alayne, make her his. How would Alayne like being a lady? Lady Clegane. His lady.

Sandor took in a deep breath. He suddenly felt much calmer. His wife. His little wife and their little children, all kept safe and protected by Sandor. The Cleganes. Alayne would want to rebuild the library, wouldn’t she? Of course she would, they’d be buying one book after another. Never mind, Sandor would want to rebuild the stables. They now had the saddle to take the rides together, if Alayne didn’t want to ride her own horse.

Why hadn’t Alayne’s father married her off yet? He must have got many offers. The man was a merchant of some sort, so he was probably waiting for the most lucrative offer. Sandor could pay the old man a nice sum, if that was what he was waiting for. There was something wrong with Alayne’s father, she didn’t want to think about him, she didn’t like being reminded of him. Sandor didn’t know what the problem was, but there was a problem and Sandor wanted Alayne as far away from it as possible. He’d pay the old man and take his little bird to safety.

Cleganes had once been a good, loving family. Sandor’s father and brother couldn’t ruin that legacy. Sandor’s grandparents had loved each other so very much. Sandor had once woken up too soon as a child and he found grandfather in grandmother’s chamber breaking fast. Grandfather had been a huge, ugly man with lots of scars and one leg missing, but despite his scary looks, Sandor’s grandmother looked at her husband as if he was her beautiful knight. On that particular morning she herself brought each bite of the meal to his lips, not because he was sick or anything, she was only being playful with him, even after so many years together. It was such a beautiful gesture and they both looked so happy and content. Sandor sat there, watching them in silence, and he promised to himself he’d have that one day too. The life had changed since then. Sandor could never let a beloved woman watch him eat now, half of his lips were ruined and numb and food kept falling from his mouth. It was so revolting it would repulse every bride away. He could never have that moment, but looking at Alayne, he was almost hoping he could have other moments, their own moments. 

Sandor peered upon the girl. He’d been constantly asking about her dreams and wishes and he never got a satisfying answer. Alayne had said she’d be happy to follow whatever path the Seven had chosen for her. Great. Very informative. What if the Seven had chosen for her a path leading to the Clegane’s Keep, to the Clegane’s bed? Would she still be happy? She always chirped whatever her septa had taught her and it was quite infuriating. What did she really want? Alayne liked lemon cakes, she always ate all of them, no matter how many Sandor brought. She liked pretty things, she liked her new dress. Sandor had noticed well enough how she kept touching it and admiring it with a happy smile. And strangely enough, Alayne seemed happy to be spending time with Sandor. Nobody had ever cared much about his opinions, but she wanted to know what he thought about everything and why. She wanted to know about his days, about people around him. She was obviously fascinated by the life of nobles, especially the norhern ones. But she cared about Sandor’s feelings, his worries and hopes. Sandor didn’t admit it when he got a little hurt during his training, but Alayne immediately noticed it and started to fuss around it and clean the injury on his hand. It had been so sweet. A girl, worried about him. His well-being was important to her. But what did it mean? 

Alayne wasn’t scared of Sandor, she’d said so herself and Sandor could tell she wasn’t lying. She wasn’t scared of him. Well, Cersei and Myrcella weren’t scared of him either. Cersei saw the most loyal servant in him and Myrcella treated him as if he was her father, or a good uncle. But Alayne knew him only for a short time and yet she was not scared of him. Stupid girl. Could it be because she had some tender feelings for him? She couldn’t love him, she’d seen him when he was sick and weak after all. And by the way, how exactly had he take a piss when he was sick? There had been some dimwit boy taking care of him, but Alayne spent so much time with him… had she witnessed it? Had she seen Sandor shit himself, too? Seven hells, she could never love him.

But she was holding his arm, she was squeezing it whenever nervousness overcame her. Surely she hadn’t witnessed his shame, she wouldn’t have behaved like this otherwise. She wasn’t repulsed by him at all, not even by his scars.

“Little bird,” he whispered. “Do you like it here?”

She nodded, a soft smile lightning up her face. His wife. The woman he’d been dreaming about as a child, it had been her all along. It had to be Alayne. They’d have half a dozen children and a loving home. No one would hurt her again. Sandor felt an overwhelming need to tell her about their future, he wanted to kiss her, kiss her everywhere, but the buggering septon thought it was an opportune moment to shout some shit about the Mother. Sandor didn’t give a rat’s arse about the Mother, he had to let Alayne know about his feelings. He put an arm around her waist and pressed her to himself, pouring all his love for her into the simplest gesture. The space between them disappeared. Sandor had to smile when Alayne yelped lightly when she collided with his body. Why was she so scared all the time, Sandor would keep her safe for the rest of their days, didn’t she realize it? She’d be his lady.

“My lord?” she whispered, looking up to him in surprise.

Sandor lowered his head to her. “I’ll keep you safe, little bird,” he murmured into her ear.

“Oh,” she bit her lip, looking around her. Everyone was staring at them again. “Should I sit elsewhere, my lord?” Alayne asked, clearly confused by Sandor’s actions.

“No, I just...” Alayne didn’t understand what Sandor was implying at all, she didn’t understand his profession of love and Sandor suddenly felt embarrassed. He wasn’t used to having such feelings, he didn’t know how to go about these things. Alayne was attending service with him, he was touching her, embracing her, why didn’t she understand? He loved feeling her soft body pressed to him, he could make love to her right then and there. What a great idea, he could do that.

“My lord?” there was still confusion in her voice.

“You wouldn’t even see the High Pig shitting himself from where you were sitting,” he grunted, scowling, awkwardly letting go of her. She didn’t sit away from him, though, she only smiled. She didn’t mind the closeness.

Alright, alright. Sandor had to calm down. He couldn’t rush this, he couldn’t fuck this up. He’d marry his little bird, that was a given. The only question was how to achieve it. Sandor would be a lord soon and he was already rich, very rich, so her father wouldn’t have any objections to this marriage. Plenty merchants seemed to like Sandor all of the sudden, Alayne’s father would be no exception. But Sandor didn’t want Alayne’s father to force her into marriage, he didn’t want it to be a duty for her. He was such a buggering fool he wanted Alayne to actually be with him out of love. Was it impossible? Probably. But Alayne wasn’t repulsed by him, it was a good start. Still, Sandor had no idea how men did this. How did they even recognize what women felt for them? 

Jaime had said once that women were always giving men hints. Hints. What hints? If Alayne happened to grab Sandor’s cock, it was a hint Sandor could perhaps understand. But Alayne didn’t strike Sandor exactly as a cock-grabbing type of woman. What was it, then? 

Almost no one married for love, even commoners wanted the most advantageous marriage. And men usually kept their mistresses for pleasure, not love. Sandor tried to remember one wedding he’d seen where people married for love. There was a freckled cook in Casterly Rock… he hadn’t raped his bride, had he? The girl had looked very happy, joyous, even the day after her wedding. The kennelmaster’s marriage seemed to be loving as well. The man had said that his wife had feigned fainting once and she’d fallen on him, obviously on purpose. It gave the kennelmaster the courage to make his feelings clear. That was nice. Clever. Could Alayne fall on Sandor, perhaps? Please? Pretty please? He had to know what she felt for him. Alayne was there, dressed in clothes from Sandor, spending the day with him, letting the world see her with him. It had to mean something, it had to. 

She didn’t hate him. She only needed to fall in love with Sandor now. But Sandor didn’t know much about courting. He hadn’t seen real courting, without pretending and games. Men liked to impress women, that much Sandor knew. Sure enough, he’d seen enough cunts show off at the training yard. But Sandor was known to be one of the best fighters in Westeros and it didn’t impress Alayne at all. She was easily scared, he instead needed to show to her he could be a good husband and father, too. He’d never been a husband to anyone, but he was great with children, even Cersei praised him for it and all the royal children often soke out his company. It was a pity Alayne had never seen Sandor play with Tommen. Sandor needed a child. He quickly looked around, trying to find something small, on which he could prove his great parental skills. There was a child! A boy, looking at him. Great. Sandor smiled at him, hoping the toddler would come over to him. But the boy yelped instead and hid his face in mother’s arms. Seven hells. Even Joffrey had never done that, although Sandor often scolded him. Buggering child, buggering people.

Sandor scowled and tried to think of something else. He needed Tommen to meet Alayne and tell her about his favourite games. Or Myrcella, Myrcella was good at talking about Sandor, better than anyone else. She talked of him more kindly than of her own father. Or the other father. Or uncle, or what in the seven hells it was called. Sandor’s daughter would be like Myrcella, too, only better, because she’d be like Alayne.

Sandor imagined Alayne with their babe at her teat. Their children would be so beautiful and so loved. Sandor would… focus. He had to focus. He had to court Alayne first, before he could ever kiss her or make a family with her. It was the right order, unfortunately. Sandor perhaps didn’t know how to court a woman, but he could make up for it in fervour. Sandor would make Alayne feel safe and cherished, he’d make her feel like a lady from songs and she’d be so amazed she’d eagerly let him wrap his cloak around her. Alayne didn’t know it yet, but she’d love him soon.


	7. Chapter 7

Alayne didn’t like riding. She particularly disliked riding a war horse and the meanest one at that. Stranger, the horse had such a blasphemous name, was known to bite anyone who came close to him. Clegane perhaps found it reassuring, or funny, but Alayne wasn’t amused. The horse wanted to bite her, too, she knew it, she could see it in his eyes. But Clegane told him harshly that he ought to protect Alayne and the horse seemed to understand. He even let Alayne pet him with her shaking hand. Alayne wasn’t a good rider and she had to put propriety aside and cling to Clegane’s enormous boy the whole ride. It was embarrassing, but the worst came at the end when Clegane helped her down the horse. The man lifted her off the beast, but he didn’t let her stand on the ground, instead he held her up in the air, so their faces were almost touching. Why did the Seven make Clegane so huge? Alayne hated feeling so helpless in his arms.

“How did you like the ride, little bird?” he rasped, his voice even deeper than usual.

“It was very nice my lord, thank you,” she replied politely, hoping he’d let her on the ground.

But he scowled instead. “Don’t lie to me, girl. Are you hurting?”

“I… a little,” she admitted shyly. “I am not used to riding.”

“I know I know,” he finally let her stand on her own feet, but he bent down to her, bringing his face close to hers again and his breath fanned over her skin. At least he didn’t smell of wine and death any more. He didn’t smell of mint or perfumes like Petyr, either. Clegane had only a scent of a man about him and it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “It will get better, I promise, little bird. It’ll take just a few rides before you get used to riding.”

Alayne knew she wouldn’t be riding again any time soon, but she didn’t argue with that. Clegane seemed different this morning. He usually looked at her with an odd, angry yearning. But the anger wasn’t there today, it gave way to something new, something perhaps even more dangerous.. Alayne spent a moment smoothing out her beautiful dress, but when she looked up again, she met his gaze and Clegane’s expression took her breath away. He was staring at her in dark hunger she’d never seen before. There had always been some desire hidden behind Clegane’s scowl, she realized, but it had never been so blatant, so overwhelming. He was devouring her with his eyes now, and while his body was completely still, his hands were trembling, scaring her further. Would he touch her? Alayne felt naked and vulnerable. Clegane wanted her, there was no doubt about it, he couldn’t even tear his gaze away from her. And she was alone with him. All alone in a forest. Clegane could do anything, he could… Gods have mercy, why had he even brought her there, why had she come?

Only when Clegane’s mouth started twitching, the man finally let go of her. He turned away and stepped towards a large tree. He took his cloak off and lay it on the ground, placing a small basket on it. Alayne meanwhile looked around, wondering whether she should take the chance and run away. But she would never succeed, she’d only infuriate him. She had to find a way to talk him out of any sinful intentions.

He cleared his throat loudly. “Come here, girl,” he commanded her.

Alayne swallowed and obediently walked over to him. She had no other choice. How could she have not realized what he wanted? Petyr always warned her men wanted only one thing from her, why hadn’t she listened to him? When Clegane had been sick he kept telling Alayne she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, he’d spoken of love and want for her. But his confused ramblings had been quite adorable at that time and she hadn’t paid much attention to them. Clegane hadn’t even known what was happening around him, how could she take him seriously? Even when he kept talking about making her heavy with their own baby god, she only laughed. But the horrible truth was that he’d always spoken about bedding her, even when he was in excruciating pain. She should have known. 

“Why don’t you sit down, little bird?” he asked her.

Alayne hesitated. She couldn’t give him such an easy access of her body. Besides, a common bastard couldn’t possibly sit down while such an important man was standing. At least not like this. Clegane always held the chair for her and Alayne obeyed the silent command without protest. But this was a completely different situation. And Alayne needed to firmly set her boundaries.

“I am waiting for you, my lord.”

“For me?” he repeated, incredulous. “Oh. Seven hells,” he murmured and quickly sat himself down on his own cloak. He eagerly reached for her and before Alayne knew what was happening, she was seated on his lap. When a surprised sound escaped her mouth, the man chuckled and pressed her even harder to himself. Oh, no, Alayne had made a horrible mistake. She’d only enticed him further, ruined her chances. She had to think, think of a way to change his mind.

She already felt his hot breath on her ear. “Are you comfortable, little bird?” he asked her, almost softly. Alayne felt anything but comfortable. Clegane had his huge arm wrapped around her torso and Alayne didn’t dare to disagree. No words came out of her mouth, though, so she just nodded, preparing herself for what was to come. She could feel the tension in the man’s body, she heard his harsh breathing, she knew him well enough to see he was just barely keeping his emotions under control. Seven have mercy Alayne could even feel his manhood pressing against her. How long would it take before he snapped? Before he pulled her under him and ruined her life forever?

Clegane took a few deep breaths, but he didn’t lay her on the ground, instead he opened the basket. “Here, I brought you something.”

“Cakes?”

“Pies, cakes, whatever you want. But you like these most of all, don’t you?

“Yes, my lord, I like lemon cakes very much.”

“Well? Won’t you take some?” he asked her kindly.

Alayne bit her lip. She was confused. Clegane was very obviously aroused, so why was he giving her cakes now? Didn’t he want to claim her, rob her of her maidenhead? Why else would his manhood be hardening in his breeches? It didn’t make any sense. But Clegane shifted slightly, awkwardly moving her away from the horrible thing between his legs. Why was he doing it, why was he putting more distance between them, instead of doing the opposite?

Alayne gathered the courage to look into the man’s eyes. He smiled at her sheepishly, looking almost embarrassed. It was odd. Clegane was clearly hoping she hadn’t noticed his arousal, but it was scaring him, too. Why? Did he think she’d judge him? Well, perhaps he had a point, Alayne had judged him a little, she had thought… But no, Clegane had no intention of hurting her, he’d never had any. She was safe with him. Alayne felt relief, closely followed by a great shame. How could she have thought such horrible things about Clegane? He was trying to become a better man, he needed her help, not mistrust. Clegane was doing such a great job at controlling himself and here she was, expecting the worst of him.

Alayne was the one behaving badly. Clegane had shared with her his darkest secrets, she was the only one to whom he’d ever confessed his sins, it was her duty as a future septa to become his spiritual guardian now. Perhaps even a friend. Could a bastard and the prince’s sworn shield be friends? Jon Snow had been close to Rob Stark after all, it wasn’t impossible. Alayne’s father didn’t find the idea of her becoming a septa very appealing, but here was Alayne’s chance to prove she had a special gift. Even without trying she had already made Clegane worship the Maiden, with her concentrated efforts she could go as far as turn the Hound into a holy man. It was her duty.

Clegane had brought the cakes only for her to eat, she knew he wouldn’t take a single bite of them. He never ate in front of her these days, even though she’d fed him for weeks before. Eating was always a great challenge for Clegane because of his ruined lips and the missing piece of flesh and he was obviously very self-conscious about it. He kept bringing her cakes and he never ate them, it wasn’t right. He needed her help.

Alayne felt much more confident now, finally knowing her mission, so she picked up a napkin and a cake and lifted them up to the man’s lips. She had done this countless times. When Clegane had been sick, he only ever ate if it was Alayne feeding him. Whenever she wasn’t there and Manny tried to feed him or wash him on his own, Clegane got very aggressive, just like a hurting animal. Clegane wasn’t so different when he was healthy and it was about time he realized that it was more than fine to eat in front of Alayne. 

Alayne waited patiently while the man kept staring at her in surprise, but then he reluctantly took a bite, chewing it carefully. Alayne held a napkin to his face, so that nothing fell down. She was so used to it that it felt completely natural. When Clegane swallowed, she smiled at him encouragingly and his arm around her tightened. He silently let her feed him the cake, keeping his glistening eyes glued to her. He watched her a little longer even after he was finished. Only when Alayne gently wiped his lip, he finally let out a shaky breath. He eventually recovered from his shock and picked up another cake from the basket. 

“Here,” he gave her an eager smile.

“My lord, you don’t need to...”

Clegane didn’t let her finish. His other hand cupped the back of her head and he moved the cake to her lips. He didn’t know how to feed anyone. At all. His hands were trembling and he basically forced Alayne to eat. He didn’t even give her enough time to swallow everything and Alayne wondered whether she’d die, suffocated by a lemon cake. What a death it would be.

It was so very awkward. Clegane always thought he had to repay everything. The girl knew that Lannisters were said to always pay their debt, but their trusted guard took it a step further. Alayne had taken care of him when he was sick, so now he wanted to take care of anything she needed. When she helped him eat a cake, he immediately had to do the same for her, even though she had no problems eating and none of the parts of her face was missing. 

“Was it good?” he asked.

It had all happened so fast Alayne didn’t even get a chance to notice the taste. “Yes, my lord, very good.”

His entire face lit up with childlike happiness. Was he happy because she had eaten a lemon cake? At least they could agree on that. Clegane was a peculiar man, but perhaps they could be friends after all. Alayne could be his friend and a spiritual mentor. Finally, finally she had a chance to do the holy work of a septa. The Seven were good. Clegane wanted to pick up another cake, but Alayne immediately stopped him. “Thank you, but I’ve had enough for now, my lord.”

“Are you sure? This one is even sweeter, don’t you want to try it?”

“Perhaps later.”

He shook his head. “You eat like a little bird.”

“But I don’t need to eat as much as you do, my lord, I am much smaller than you.”

He smirked. “That you are,” he entwined his fingers with hers and laughed at the size difference of their hands. It did indeed look a little absurd, but while his palm was so very huge and rough, he held her hand with great gentleness. “I’ll keep you safe, little bird,” he promised to her again, the sixth time in one day. “I’ll always keep you safe.”

Alayne shivered, not really knowing why. She could feel Clegane’s warm breath on her skin, she was holding his hand and she was sitting on his lap, there was nothing proper about this situation. And yet she felt more safe and comfortable than she had in years. It was an intoxicating feeling, a dangerously addictive one. Alayne liked feeling so safe and she was enjoying it far too much. She wouldn’t fall for it, of course. Whenever she started to feel safe, something horrible happened. She couldn’t believe it. She was Alayne Stone, a natural daughter of Petyr Baelish, and a prince’s sworn shield had no reason to keep her safe. She was alone, she only had her father Petyr. She couldn’t trust anyone else, everybody else wanted something from her. It had always been that way. There had always been only Petyr and her. She couldn’t fall for this illusion, for the false sense of security. It was only Petyr and her.

“Little bird,” the man stroked her hair. “I...” he cleared his throat and took out something out of a shawl. 

“A book?“ Alayne blinked. “You have brought a book here?” she asked needlessly.

“Well, I bought it from an old maester who collects old tales in Riverlands. And since you come from there, I thought...” Clegane trailed off.

“Oh, it’s so beautiful!” Alayne couldn’t help but touch it.

“It is, isn’t it?” she could hear the smile in the man’s voice. “Do you want me to read it for you?”

Alayne was a little surprised by that proposition, but she gladly agreed. She loved Riverlands’ tales and she hoped there would be one about a forest fairy saved by a brave knight, too. Clegane wrapped his huge arm around Alayne and held her to his chest. Oddly enough, it didn’t frighten her in the slightest. It wouldn’t be polite to pull away from him and because Alayne took politeness very seriously, she instead lay her head on Clegane’s muscled chest. His manhood wasn’t pressing against her now and Clegane’s warm embrace was very comfortable. Alayne didn’t remember anyone holding her like this ever before. There had been some fatherly hugs and kisses from Petyr, of course, but nothing like this. When the warrior started to read, she could feel his deep voice reverberating through his body. Alayne preferred soft voices of her neighbour’s beautiful sons, but she didn’t mind Clegane’s raspy voice too much. It was unique. Broken and yet incredibly strong and manly. And it had a surprisingly soothing effect on Alayne.

Clegane sounded unsure at first, but he quickly grew bolder and his reading was soon confident and very entertaining. Only the tales were too short.

“And that’s the tale of a bloody fool who tried to argue with a dragon, instead of cutting his head off in the first place,” Clegane finished.

“That is not written there!” Alayne protested, giggling.

“Well, that’s a bloody shame, isn’t it? You can’t trust a maester’s writing.”

Alayne smiled into the man’s jerkin. “You are a very good reader, my lord.”

“I used to read a lot to Joff, before he became a cunt and started to burn books,” Clegane shrugged. “I mean… I don’t think children are cunts, it’s just Joff who is a cunt. I actually like children.”

Alayne knew how deeply troubled Clegane was by the prince’s behaviour, so she looked up to meet the man’s gaze. “Of course, my lord, the prince must be very fond of you.”

He fidgeted slightly. “I couldn’t have changed him, you know? I tried, but there’s only so much I could do with a prince. It would have been different if he was mine and the queen wasn’t around.”

“I am sure of it.”

“Don’t lie to me, girl,” he growled. “I know I have people like Gregor in my bloodline, but I’d never let my child suffer as much as Gregor did. It would have been different if Gregor had been my child.”

“I know...”

“No, you don’t,” Clegane snapped. Why had his mood changed so quickly again? “I’d do anything for my family, I wouldn’t beat my child if they had a problem. I’d pay the best maesters, find the best cure, be patient. I’d never beat a child for being in pain,” Clegane spat passionately, reminding Alayne of the time when he had been sick. He had often rambled like this about Gregor’s frequent punishments and the lack of prince Joffrey’s discipline. Sandor Clegane would be a good father, Alayne was sure of it, but he always needed to hear it again and again. He wasn’t sick any more, but he needed her comfort just as much as before.

“You think I’d beat my children, don’t you?” he grumbled. “Because of that butcher’s boy,” he mentioned another favourite topic of his. “You think I take joy in hurting children.”

“No, of course not. You would be amazing father, my lord.”

“Lord, lord. Bugger the lords, I wouldn’t be like my father obsessed with titles!” he was getting angrier and angrier. “I’d be a husband first and foremost. I mean, a father. A husband and a father.”

Alayne was used to these outbursts, but when he squeezed her waist painfully, a bolt of fear went through her again. She had been able to deal with his anger when he was sick and there was Manny around to help her, but being all alone in a forest with this giant of a man was completely different. “I know.”

“Don’t you lie to me, Alayne,” he growled. “You think I love killing children, don’t you? 

“No, of course not! I’ve spent weeks with you, listening to your stories, do you truly have me for stupid?”

“Why are you shaking then?” he asked her accusingly. “Will I always be only a killer in your eyes?”

“If you were, I wouldn’t have come here with you. I wouldn’t have trusted you with my life, my lord, would I?” Alayne said sternly. “But you won’t hurt me.”

She had known such words would take his breath away and she wasn’t mistaken. Clegane froze and his eyes looked almost scared for a moment. Even when he had been sick, he always looked scared when Alayne said something nice about him. He wasn’t used to hearing honest compliments that didn’t praise his fighting skills. He wanted to believe her words, but didn’t know how. He’d suffered so much in his life, Alayne wanted to take all his pain away. She touched his arm and he immediately captured her hand in his again.

“No, I won’t hurt you, little bird,” he rasped, clearly confused, but at least not angry any more. “I… I’ll read another tale, what do you say?”

Alayne nodded and leaned her head onto his chest again. It was a beautiful afternoon and time flew by fast. Clegane wasn’t very happy when they had to go, but Alayne didn’t leave any room for argument. It was getting late and she couldn’t possibly arrive home at dusk. Alayne let Clegane help her on and off the horse and she wasn’t scared at all. And yet, when he walked her to her door, he stood far too close to her again. There was such an odd gleam in his eyes, she thought he’d kiss her. Would he? She quickly closed her eyes, waiting for it to be over.

The touch of his cruel mouth didn't come and Alayne felt the man's fingers dig painfully into her shoulder instead. “You’ve had enough of my face, is that it?” He snarled in anger. Again. “You can’t even bear to look at me any more!”

Alayne gaped at him in astonishment. She had never met a moodier person. Clegane was so wonderfully awful, it would be a true accomplishment to redeem such a man. “My lord...”

“Bugger your lords, girl, you think...”

He didn’t finish. Some instinct made Alayne lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers and it immediately silenced him. Alayne tenderly stroked Clegane’s face. His scars had got much worse again. When Alayne had taken care of him, she always treated each of the scars on his face and body with ointments that calmed down his skin and the burn scars never cracked, never broke out. They did now and they oozed wet and sticky. Alayne caressed the man’s cheek, trying to take some pain away.

“Little bird,” Clegane rasped. His voice was raw and harsh as steel on stone, but his eyes gleamed with tender emotions. He covered her hand with his and turned his head to plant soft kisses into her palm. Alayne smiled. He was indeed nuzzling her hand just like a dog.

Alayne thought for a moment that there were tears in Clegane’s eyes, but then he turned on his heel and briskly marched away from her. It caught Alayne completely by surprise. Clegane didn’t say anything, he didn’t mention when he would come for a visit next time, whether she’d even see him ever again. What if he’d had enough of a common bastard girl? Clegane didn’t bid her farewell, didn’t wave at her, didn’t do anything. He just left, as quickly as possible. Only the horse scent remained, clinging to the girl’s beautiful dress. And Alayne still didn’t know whether she was Clegane’s friend.


	8. Chapter 8

She had stroked his cheek. She had held his hand. She had wrapped her thin arms around his torso. She really had. Or was Sandor still dreaming? Sandor glanced at a cloak buckle in his hand. He hadn’t looked at it in twenty years, but lately he was staring at it more and more frequently. It was a beautiful jewel shaped like a dog. Well, it resembled a wolf more than anything else, but it had been a traditional gift from his grandparents. When Sandor was born, they had a buckle made for him which he would one day use to cloak his bride. Sandor hadn’t thought he’d ever get a chance to use it, he never wanted to see it. Now he liked to look at it now, he actually spent a lot of time imagining his future.

“Lord Clegane?” a soft voice roused him from his pleasant thoughts.

Sandor slowly turned around, not really responding. 

“I believe I have a reason to congratulate you, my lord,” the little worm told him.

“Nothing has been made official yet, so I’m no buggering lord, Littlefinger.”

“Oh. Any other reason to congratulate you then?” Baelish smiled an inordinately false smile even for his standard.

“I have no need for your congratulations.”

“Indeed?”

Sandor wondered for a moment whether he should say some words of sympathy. As bad as Littlefinger was, his wife Lysa had died only two days prior. Sandor couldn’t imagine the pain of such a loss. If anything would have ever happened to Alayne… seven hells, he couldn’t even think about it. His little bird wasn’t allowed to as much as cough. She was his, she’d always be his and she’d always be healthy and happy. No other option was acceptable. Sandor hated Littlefinger, but he didn’t wish this grief even on him. Who could tell how much pain was actually hidden behind the man’s ratty smile?

Everybody knew Baelish had already tried to safe Lysa’s sister Catelyn Stark several years prior. Ned Stark’s wife had been ill for a long time, but Baelish refused to accept the inevitable. He’d spent a fortune on maesters and cures, just trying to save the woman’s life. She’d been like a sister to him, the Starks said. Baelish had taken her maidenhead and they’d been lovers before she had to marry Ned Stark, said the others. Either way he loved her and tried to save her and he didn’t succeed. Even then he tried to help Ned Stark find his daughter, who had run away at the time of Lady Stark’s death. And it were Littlefinger’s people who found the little girl’s bloodied cloak. It was a bitter irony that Ned Stark’s daughter had been torn by wolves on the day of his wife’s death, but the tragedy brought Baelish much closer to the family. Especially the young wolf, Robb Stark, considered him his mentor. Not that it helped much, Baelish was so stricken with grief that he wasn’t seen in King’s Landing for three years after Lady Catelyn’s death.

Now that Sandor had his own lady, he could sympathize with Littlefinger’s pain a bit more. Lady Catelyn and Baelish had definitely been lovers, Sandor was convinced of that. Baelish wouldn’t have been so heartbroken otherwise. Baelish had to accept that she’d married another man, he had to see her children grown out of someone else’s seed. He’d seen his lady move to the North, where her health inevitably declined and he’d seen her die because of it. He couldn’t save her and he couldn’t save her daughter. Sandor hadn’t thought about it before, but now he actually had to admire Baelish for the first time in his life. He would have never been able to cope with the man’s situation. Actually, he wouldn’t have been so gracious in the first place, he’d kill anyone and everyone, the whole North if need be, he’d never let his lady love be given to a highborn fucker she didn’t even know. People should marry out of love. Like Sandor and Alayne. 

But Baelish was tougher than he looked and he’d recovered. He returned to King’s Landing and later comforted Lysa Arryn when her husband died. Unfortunately lady Lysa was sick as well and Baelish just recently married her to take care of her. Even Ned Stark approved of this marriage, despite it being solemnised only weeks after Jon Arryn’s death. Now that Lady Lysa had died, it was obvious that Baelish hadn’t inherited anything of her fortune, so he had indeed been truthful in his intentions. Perhaps he wasn’t as bad as Sandor had thought. Sandor couldn’t help but feel for him a little.

Baelish continued to watch Sandor, though. “I have heard you found yourself a new… object of interest,” he said. “A very beautiful object of interest.”

“What’s that to you?” Sandor growled.

“Well, beautiful ladies are my speciality, are they not?”

Alright, Baelish was still an annoying piece of shit. Sandor was glad that at least some certainty remained in the world. “Tell me what you want or fuck off, Littlefinger,” Sandor snarled.

“My ladies were hoping to entertain you after your performance at the Tourney. There is even a new lady exactly to my lord’s taste and she cannot wait to meet the famed Hound. I merely wished to assure myself you would not disappoint us for a common bastard.”

Sandor ground his teeth. Baelish always stuck his ratty nose in everybody else’s business, but he had never cared about Sandor so far. Whether he started caring because of Sandor’s money, title or the pretty girl, it was quite unsettling anyway. Baelish never chose his words lightly, so Sandor couldn’t let his surprise show. Littlefinger wanted to see a reaction and he wouldn’t get one.

“Do I have any debts in your establishments, lord Baelish?” Sandor asked calmly.

“Of course not, you’ve never had any, my lord.”

“Do you have anything to say to the prince?”

“No, I do not.”

“Then why are you here?” Sandor asked coldly.

“I only wished to congratulate you to your newly attained lordship. As a lord to a lord.”

“Nothing has been made official yet, no congratulation is in order.”

“Well, what about something else then? Can I congratulate you on a wedding perhaps? A lord doesn’t take a girl to a sept for nothing after all.”

“A lord doesn’t tell a lord to fuck off for nothing, either. Is there something else you want?”

“No, no, I think I’ll bid you a good day, my lord,” Baelish smiled once more, finally retreating. What was this about anyway? Sandor shook his head. Baelish could collect all the information he wanted, he’d never get to breathe the same air with Alanyne. Sandor would take his little bird away. Soon. Very soon.

Sandor couldn’t help but smile when thinking about his upcoming wedding. His cloak would be so much bigger than his bride, Alayne would look even more adorable in it than usual. She’d probably blush. And she’d blush further when Sandor would finally get a taste of her. Alayne would expect her new husband to just hammer his cock into her and be done with it soon. But she was mistaken, their wedding night would be like nothing she’d possibly experienced, or heard about. Oh, no, no, Sandor would take his time to worship her delicate body and learn her curves. Alayne had made Sandor feel like he was in the seven heavens, it was about time Sandor did the same for her. Alayne herself would be eager for more, she herself would want his cock inside her. It was a brilliant plan and Sandor was very proud of it.

Sandor still wasn’t sure how to go about asking the girl to marry him, though. He definitely didn’t want to go to her father first, he wanted her genuine answer. But there was no proper way to do it that way. What should he say? Should he just ask Alayne casually, between meals? Or take her to their place by the river and kneel in front of her, promising to her bright future and many big pups? But wouldn’t she be scared to reject him there, all alone with a huge killer? Sandor didn’t want Alayne to accept him out of fear. What was it then? And how was he supposed to make his ugly form desirable anyway?

Sandor kept considering his options again again, but despite all his doubts he was feeling more confident about his prospects now, ever since Alayne started to touch him more. Whether she was a mere mortal or not, her touch was definitely magical. It made Sandor forget about his damn face, about the Lannisters, about all he’d done wrong. When Alayne stroked his cheek, he felt complete, like a man with future. He craved more of those touches. Alayne was so bloody sweet. They hadn’t kissed yet, but the intimacy between them was clearly flourishing. It was odd that the greatest beauty could overlook his ugliness with such ease, but perhaps it wasn’t so surprising. The person who teased Sandor the most about his looks had always been the ugliest one, too, Tyrion Lannister. 

Ah, the good old Imp. Hopefully, the world would be soon rid of him. The twisted gargoyle of a man had been arrested by Ned Stark, but nobody except Jaime had any pity for him. Poor Jaime never wanted to open his eyes and acknowledge what a piece of shit his brother was. Unfortunately, even the queen opposed Ned Stark, because of her father’s disappointed letters. Tywin Lannister couldn’t let such shame fall upon his family without any retaliation. The King was furious, but it was unclear, whether his anger was directed towards his friend, or his wife. Probably both, since King Robert hated anything that diverted his attention from hunting and whoring. Ned Stark and his people meanwhile kept asking everyone too many dangerous question. Sandor didn’t give a rat’s arse, if the Northerner risked his neck sniffing around the Lannisters, but the man had his daughter here and he didn’t seem to care about her safety, either. Ned Stark was indeed a dumb piece of shit just like Sandor’s father, wasn’t he? The King’s Hand had even asked Sandor whether the queen had ever been left alone with other men outside her family. What kind of a dim-wit asked such question so directly? And why? The bloody wolf was lucky Sandor didn’t snitch on him, if only for the girl’s sake. The man’s luck couldn’t last long, though.

Ned Stark would do better to mind his own business. Find himself a new wife, perhaps. Everyone should have love in their life, it felt great. No royal gesture had touched Sandor as much as the moment when Alayne had held a napkin to his face and gently fed him her favourite cake. No amount of victories would ever be as satisfying as having Alayne’s trust. No prize would be as sweet as her smile when he’d read to her. Seven hells, she’d really caressed his face without disgust, or pretending. He still couldn’t believe it, he kept replaying the moment in his head all the time. Alayne just didn’t mind it, she honestly didn’t mind how his scars looked and felt. She didn’t mind it. And if she didn’t mind his scars, she wouldn’t mind the rest of his body, either, would she? She’d accept him in his ugliness. She’d run her dainty hands all over him. And more than hands. Fuck. What would Alayne’s kisses be like? Would she kiss him everywhere, or would she be too shy for it? And would she bite him, too? So many important questions to wonder about. Alayne could even bite him, she could bite him anywhere she wanted. Well, perhaps not everywhere. Almost everywhere. She could kiss the rest. And suck. Seven hells, why was Sandor getting hard again? He was having perfectly innocent thoughts, his cock was really just being a dick today.

Sandor stepped out into the training yard and quickly sized up the competition. Barristan and Jaime were nowhere to be seen. Was it even worth it to spar with these feckless buggers? Sandor lately didn’t care that much about beating the shit out of the members of the Kingsguard. He wasn’t so angry any more, he’d rather think about his little bird than fighting. Sandor sat himself down, hoping Barristan would come soon, too. Jaime probably had better things to do, but Barristan had a free afternoon and he usually trained almost as much as Sandor.

What was Jaime doing? Sandor truly hoped he hadn’t gone and killed Ned Stark. Just in the last few day Sandor had had to stop his commander several times from doing something foolish. Jaime wasn’t a bad man, but his family left a lot to be desired. Jaime was fond even of his brother, the little devil, and it could easily get him into trouble now.

Sandor was losing track who was on which side and what they were after, but the air was getting thicker and unlike Jaime, Sandor was hoping Tyrion Lannister wouldn’t get out of it alive. He could never stand the man. The Imp felt superior to everyone else, he always mocked his servants and disregarded almost everyone as stupid. What had he ever accomplished to be so proud of himself? Jaime was the one with actual skills, actual strategic mind and actual successes. And Jaime treated his men with respect, he was strict, but just. The first time Sandor had met the Imp, the boy cheered upon seeing a creature he deemed even uglier than himself. The first time Sandor had met Jaime, it was a feast at Casterly Rock and Sandor was sitting alone at the table. Tyrion merrily used the opportunity to tease him about it, but Jaime didn’t. Jaime Lannister, Tywin Lannister’s golden boy, came over, sat down and ate his dinner with Sandor, a disfigured squire. Sandor had been just a scrawny boy, but the simple gesture helped him immensely. Jaime had always seen Sandor’s talent and he helped him, even though he knew Sandor could one day become even a much better fighter than he himself. Jaime valued Sandor’s opinion more than anyone at Casterly Rock and he never teased him for his looks. The Imp did. The Imp always commented on people’s looks.

Jaime had done plenty of wrong, but who hadn’t? Jaime was a fair fighter and a great commander and he never even tolerated rape, he had punished his men for it many times. That was more than could be said about most men in the Red Keep. It was certainly much more than could be said about the Imp. Tyrion was perhaps only a half man, but he was a complete monster, the worst of the Lannisters. 

Sandor remembered the time when an innocent girl had somehow fallen in love with the Imp. The twisted man used her and when he got bored of her, he gave her to the rats at the barracks so that they could rape her. The Imp watched. There was a girl who loved his deformed mug and he watched her get raped, he watched her cry and scream in pain and terror and then Tyrion even raped her himself. Sandor was older, more experienced than the Imp, he’d seen more blood and pain and fucked more women, but even he couldn’t watch it. Sandor had arrived to the scene just when the Imp was raping the girl and he could never get that image out of his head. He’d heard enough about the girl’s previous suffering, he saw how broken she was. He’d rarely felt so much rage as at that moment, seeing the girl’s anguish, hearing people shout at him to fuck her as well. It was Jaime who helped the girl when Tyrion was finished with her, allowing Sandor to carry her away and while Jaime was somehow able to forgive Tyrion, Sandor could never do that, he could never forget. He never understood how any man could even get hard at the sight of someone’s agony, much less act upon it. Only a true monster was capable of that. Sandor knew what he saw and because of it he wanted the Imp’s death almost as much as Gregor’s. 

Whatever people said about the Kingslayer, at least he never raped anyone, never took advantage of enslaved whores. Jamie had even given that poor girl some silver and gold. It didn’t do much to help, but at least he tried. The Imp cared only for himself, he wanted to be loved and admired, but he never gave love, he never tried to help anyone. Sandor didn’t know whether the Imp had truly tried to kill the Stark boy and the flimsy evidence certainly wasn’t enough to convict the son of Tywin Lannister. But perhaps some more crimes of the Imp would be brought to light, there had to be many. One thing was certain, Tyrion Lannister deserved to die.

Jaime wasn’t so bad, but sometimes Sandor didn’t like him that much, either. Like now.

“When were you going to tell me?” the young lion asked cockily as soon as he appeared in the training yard.

“What?”

“Have a guess,” Jaime retorted. “You go to Cersei, you write my father, but don’t bother mentioning your plans to me? Really?”

“The decision hasn’t been made until this morning, there was nothing to talk about.”

“Nothing, lord Clegane?” Jaime laughed. “I thought you hated titles. And besides, the whole city is talking about the Hound’s girl. A pretty little thing, they say, and nobody knows who she is. People talk about her more than about Tyrion’s arrest, I didn’t think it was possible.”

Sandor didn’t reply, polishing his sword instead. Unfortunately, Jaime hadn’t realized it was the appropriate time to shut up. “It’s because of that wench, isn’t it?” he continued. “Come on, Sandor, you hate Clegane’s Keep, you wouldn’t take the lordship if it wasn’t for a woman.”

“Have you come to train, or talk?” Sandor growled, standing up to his full size, dwarfing even Jaime.

“I can do both,” Jaime smirked. “I thought you could, too, Sandor. You could have at least said something, you know.” He sounded almost hurt.

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Sure, sure. Do I know her?”

“No,” Sandor barked out. Nobody in the Red Keep would ever get to meet his little bird, everybody would want to keep her for themselves and Sandor couldn’t risk her safety.

Jaime rolled his eyes up. “What do you even have to gain, Sandor? You live for a good fight, we both know that. You can fuck the girl anytime you want, you can put in her as many children as you want. And when you are old and can’t hold a sword any more, there will always be a way to give your children Clegane name and lands. Why give up everything for a wench now, when you’re at your prime?”

“This?” Sandor snorted, pointing to the polished members of the Kingsguard, who were fighting with the efficiency of crippled gnats. It was unclear, whether Trant was trying to give someone a haircut, or he was actually trying pick his teeth with the sword. “You think this is everything?”

“It sure is more than a wench warming your bed.”

“May be for you, Lannister, but my woman is then obviously worth more than anything you’ve ever had.”

“Oh, really? Should I pay her to suck my dick, too?” 

Enough. Sandor had heard enough. Jaime always wanted to provoke him, but he had no right to talk that way about Sandor’s woman. Alayne was like a frightened little bird, she would never have to be afraid again. Sandor would keep her safe, even from filthy talk of bloody highborns. Sandor lunged at his commander, snarling in response. Jaime expected his reaction and easily diverted the blow, giving him a smug grin.

“Struck a nerve?” he teased him further. “How many men have paid the girl, before she got so good at sucking cocks, what do you think?”

Sandor snorted. “Are you turning into your brother, lord commander? And here I was, thinking at least one Lannister can get a woman for free.”

Those words made Jaime stop for a moment and stare at Sandor in genuine surprise. “For fuck’s sake, you really believe the wench loves you, don’t you?” he gasped. “What did she do, Sandor? She didn’t puke when looking at you and she somehow managed to ride that kidney-cracker you call a cock, so now you think she loves you? Seven hells, this is just unbelievable!”

“It is indeed unbelievable how much shit you can fit into one sentence,” Sandor agreed.

“Sandor, wake up. You think the wench just happened to fall in love with you right after you won the Tourney? Come on, you’re smarter than that!”

Sandor snorted and launched at Jaime, his moves much more calculated and efficient this time. The golden-haired knight soon stumbled and fell into the dirt. Sandor immediately stepped onto his sword hand. “Smart enough to find myself a kind, unmarried girl, who doesn’t play games and use people around her,” he rasped. “But I’m very glad you’re so much smarter than me, lord commander.”

Jaime’s mouth set in an ugly grimace. “I guess we’re all slaves to pretty cunts sometimes.”

Sandor nodded. “And I’m sorry that’s everything you have, Jaime,” he returned his commander the sword and marched off the training yard.

Sandor had more important things to do than train, worry about Jaime, or Littlefinger. Sandor’s relationship with Alayne was driving him crazy and he couldn’t go on like this any longer. He visited Alayne every day, they had gone to a sept together, she had gifted him with the most beautiful afternoon of his life. It was unbearable, being so close to Alayne and yet so far. Sandor wasn’t made for this, he wasn’t made for courting and he didn’t like having an almost-relationship. Alayne was his woman, the whole city knew it already, even Tywin probably knew about it by this time. Sandor’s own body knew it. He felt drunk all the time, even though he hadn’t touched wine at all. He craved to be as close to Alayne as possible and he couldn’t rest before seeing her in the evening. But when he was with her, he was suffocating. How long would he have to court her before she allowed him at least a little kiss? Not that Sandor would satisfy himself with a little kiss, but it seemed like a good start. Unlike courting.

Sandor walked past merchants who were yelling out their goods, but it was a soft voice that made him stop. Tommen was choosing a toy for his cat apparently. He was big enough to start killing men, but he still preferred to play with cats. Sandor smiled at the sight and he wanted to walk over to the boy, but then Tommen noticed him and fear crossed his features. Fear. When Tommen was a toddler they used to play together every day and Sandor thought they would always be close. But in the last years they spent less and less time together and now Tommen was afraid of his burnt face and harsh voice. Tommen didn’t want to talk to Sandor anymore, he viewed him as a threat, an ugly nightmare.

“It’s such an honour to see you, ser, may I congratulate you on this splendid day?” a merchant hurried to Sandor. “Just look, I have something special for you!”

“Bugger off,” Sandor barked out, but the man thrust a wooden toy into his hand and Sandor glanced at it, unable to mask his surprise.

“It is yours, my lord,” merchant announced proudly. “We have made sure to perfect every little detail. The knight has everything just like you on that great day, does he not?”

Everything except the face. The wooden knight had an armour looking just like the armour Sandor had worn at the Hand’s Tourney, but the knight had no face, no hair, no scars. How convenient.

“I am sure your sons will view it as their favourite toy one day,” the merchant kept smiling at him in satisfaction, as if he’d just uncovered a great secret.

His sons. His children. Sandor watched Tommen leave without a single word. He’d lost him, hadn’t he? Sandor had lost all the Baratheon children and he hadn’t even realized it until now. Tommen had forgotten about their games, Myrcella had her lady friends and she didn’t like to be seen with a monster any more. And Joffrey, Joffrey called him Dog, and even though he still wanted Sandor’s approval, he didn’t truly care about him. Sandor had thought he’d almost found a family in those children, but it had all just been in his own head. It was embarrassing he’d ever wanted to show off his relationship with them to Alayne. It surprised him how much it actually stung.

But Sandor’s own children would always see a father in the scarred man, wouldn’t they? Sandor imagined Alayne telling their little pups about the Hand’s Tourney. Sandor would scowl and grumblet, of course, but his children would play with the wooden toy anyway, proud about their father. They would respect him, but never fear him or be ashamed of him, they’d be used to his scars. Sandor pictured his sweet Alayne with her stomach swelling with his child. There was so much love and patience in her she’d be more caring than the Mother herself. 

Sandor nodded numbly to the merchant and continued on his way to his chambers. Only when he closed the door behind himself, he remembered something and looked at the toy again. A wooden knight. Had he not hated these things? Sandor stared at the wooden knight for a moment, frozen in place. Why wasn’t he angry? He was calm, almost happy. Toys made him think of his future now, not his past. He was free. Free of Gregor, free of the Lannisters, free to marry Alayne Stone and give her real home, real family and name. He was free.

Sandor left the toy on a table and he headed towards the stables. He was free, but no more patient. He’d had enough of waiting, enough of all the stupid courting and idle talk. He wasn’t good at these things. He wanted to start building a new home with Alayne, make their future, make her truly his, not just dream about it. He had to know Alayne’s answer. Would she say yes? Would she take him? Would she finally call him by his name and give herself to him? Would she let him kiss her, touch her… Would she? Sandor needed to know. Stranger run fast, knowing the way well enough and enjoying the thrill of a fast canter through the city. Stranger loved it when people, carts and horses disappeared in front of him, everyone shrieking in fear. And it was useful to Sandor, too. He couldn’t wait any longer. There was a large wheelhouse standing in Sandor’s way, but Sandor didn’t pay any attention to it and he walked over to Alayne’s door. He had to know. He had to know now.


	9. Chapter 9

Sandor brushed his fingers nervously through his hair and quickly wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. He could be kissing Alayne soon, he should have chewed a few mint leaves or something. He didn’t smell too bad, did he? Sandor’s heart was beating maddeningly, but he made himself knock on the door. Would Alayne agree to marry him? Would she be horrified?

The door opened immediately, but a very old and frail man was standing there. A shock and fear passed his features at the sight of the infamous Hound, but he quickly composed himself and bowed, greeting him subserviently.

A steward. Alayne didn’t have any servants, so the man had to work for her father. Sandor glanced back at the wheelhouse standing in the street. Ah, so Alayne’s father was indeed some rich bugger and he came for a visit. Had he heard about Sandor and Alayne’s visit to sept, too? Never mind. Sandor could ask him for his blessing right away. He just needed a moment to be with Alayne alone first, he couldn’t wait any longer for her answer. Seven hells, would the father even allow it? But no, no, everything was fine, he was still Sandor Clegane. Even if the merchant intended to separate the young lovers, he wouldn’t dare to say it directly to the Hound’s face. 

“I came to speak with Alayne,” Sandor said, the picture of a perfect, well-mannered knight. If a perfect knight could have a melted face and a voice of the Stranger.

“Alayne? I beg forgiveness, ser, but I do not know any Alayne.”

“Alayne Stone,” Sandor scowled, still trying to be polite. “The young girl who lives here.”

“Oh. I see you must have mistaken the house, ser. No young girl lives here, I assure you.”

Sandor clenched his fist. The old age had obviously completely emptied the man’s skull, but Sandor still couldn’t kill him. “Who is now at the house then?”

“Only the master of the house, ser.”

“Alright, I want to speak with him. Now.”

“Oh. As you wish, ser. Please, do come in,” the steward bowed.

Sandor angrily strode in, looking around for Alayne. He didn’t want other people to distract him from his purpose. The steward quickly returned with another old bugger, but it was hard to believe that the greasy merchant could be Alayne’s father. His eyes were dark brown and none of his plump features reminded Sandor of the girl.

“I am Timon Karpos,” he introduced himself confidently. “The castle’s best supplier of spices, if I may say so. What can I do for you, ser?”

“Sandor Clegane, the crown prince’s shield,” Sandor introduced himself stiffly. Ever since his first encounter with Tywin Lannister he’d never actually tried to make a good impression on any man, it felt very unnatural. How should he even speak to a man, whose delicate daughter he wanted to bed? At least this man was quite old, so no matter what, he wouldn’t make problems for a too long time. It was practical. Alayne didn’t love him, Sandor was sure of it. There was something wrong about their relationship, Alayne was only being a dutiful daughter. When she mentioned her father, there was never the genuine affection that filled her voice whenever she spoke about her friends. There wasn’t something right, even if this man didn’t look like a complete cunt. “As I said before, I came to visit Alayne.”

“So I have been told. But I am afraid I do not know any Alayne, ser. I am a widower, I live alone.”

“But who lives in this house?”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t,” Sandor snarled. The man didn’t look like he was lying and it only infuriated Sandor. “I have been here every day over the last few weeks, don’t try this with me.”

The man’s confidence finally faltered for a moment. “But… are you sure you have not mistaken the house, ser?”

Sandor glanced around the room. It looked different here. The furniture was the same, but many small details were missing. The spinning wheel was gone, the embroidered table cloth as well, even the welcoming aroma of Alayne’s cooking wasn’t there. Instead of that there were several large chests and paintings lying on the floor, everything disarranged and out of order. A shiver of dread travelled the length of Sandor’s spine.

“You’ve just moved in,” Sandor noted. It wasn’t a question. “So don’t go about making a bloody fool me. Where is the girl?” he asked in a low voice.

“But no girl lived here before, ser, only two septas. They were supposed to move away next turn of the moon, such was our agreement. When a tragedy struck, the house was suddenly left empty, so I decided to move here earlier than planned. I have a mansion next to the Red Keep, you see, but I want to rebuild it as soon as possible.”

“Septas?” Sandor repeated out loud. “What septas? What tragedy?”

“Septas,” the man shrugged. “They came here from the riverlands and took care of the sick. They haven’t stayed long, though, one of the women ventured into the Flea Bottom in good faith and when she tried to help some bastards, they killed her.”

Sandor’s head was spinning. Two septas. One of them dead. Killed. Dead. Dead.

“It’s a terrible tragedy. I am very sorry if she was your friend,” Karpos added.

Septas, septas. It wasn’t a tragedy, it couldn’t be. It was only a tragic load of shit. “This is a fine house, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is, ser. I own only fine things. The king himself enjoys meals perfected with spices from me!”

“Good for you. This house cannot be cheap then. How could septas ever pay for it?”

“They didn’t,” Karpos smiled. “They stayed only for seven turns of the moon, I let them stay here for free.”

“So you took in two strange women just out of the goodness of your heart?”

“I did.”

Sandor took in a deep breath. “You’re lying,” he growled menacingly. “They could have gone to any motherhouse in the city, they didn’t need to live here.”

“Well,” the man hesitated. “Someone asked it of me as a favour.”

“And who was that someone?”

The man started to fidget. He didn’t want to talk about that special someone and it made Sandor only more intent on knowing the truth. Sandor casually put a hand on his sword handle. “Who is it?” he rasped, his voice deadly calm.

“One girl.”

“What girl?”

“A… friend of mine. She asked me to take them in for the few moon turns before the reconstruction of my residence. But...” He swallowed, tears gleaming in his eyes. “She is dead now.”

“How?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How has your friend died?”

“Fever.”

“She was a whore, wasn’t she?”

The man frowned, looking Sandor straight in the eyes. “I am a widower, ser, I can do as I please.”

Sandor clenched his jaw. Too many dead women. Too many dead women for a coincidence. Why hadn’t Sandor taken Alayne away before, why the fuck had he waited? He’d always known there was something rotten about her family, why hadn’t he acted upon his instincts? Alayne wasn’t dead though, of course she wasn’t. She was his, she wasn’t allowed to die. Ever.

Sandor didn’t even have to ask why the old fool had listened to a common whore. Some men really treated whores like their lovers, deluding themselves into thinking there was real affection between them. It wasn’t the first time Sandor had seen a man act like this. In this at least the man wasn’t lying.

“Why would a whore care about two septas?”

“My friend owned them her life, ser. She had a good heart full of kindness.”

Sandor wanted to say something about fucking a whore for her heart, but he stopped himself. Whores were usually better people than all the buggers in the Red Keep anyway, so there was no point in arguing about it.

“What did she look like?”

“Oh, she was a beauty like no other. Big dark eyes, head full of glossy black hair and a beautiful spirit.”

Alayne’s friend who’d been almost killed by Gregor didn’t fit that description. So what did the whore have in common with Alayne? The story about her owning her life to Alayne was plausible, Alayne had saved Sandor, too, after all. But why would anyone make the man believe there were two septas living in his house? Alayne was no septa, she was Sandor’s bride. Had the whore been helping Alayne to hide away? Had the girl been Alayne’s friend, or not?

“When did your friend die?”

The man looked at his toes. “Five days ago,” he said quietly.

“Did you see her when she was sick?”

“No, I did not. I didn’t know until it was too late. I... I will never forgive myself for that.”

The man was genuinely broken by the whore’s death. Perhaps it was the reason why he was so eager to move away quickly and focus on rebuilding his mansion.

It didn’t stop Sandor from further inquiries. “Do you know the names of the septas?”

“Only the one I’ve met, Septa Odila.”

“What did she look like?”

“Well, like a septa. Old and preachy… I do not know how to describe her further, forgive me, ser.”

“Was she the one who moved away, or the one killed?”

Karpos sat himself down, as if Sandor’s questions were tiring him. “She was the one who moved away. She told me about the tragedy only briefly. I’ve never met the other septa.”

“And where did Septa Odila go?”

“I do not know. Some motherhouse, I guess.”

Once again, the man wasn’t lying. Sandor wondered whether it would help Alayne if he killed Karpos. Probably not. The man could still get useful.

“Unfortunately, I didn’t care to ask,” the old merchant added. “But Maester Gislin will know more for sure, they were helping him, after all. He has worked in the Red Keep, he has treated the royalty and now he lives in the house across the street. There are many important people living here, you see, not only me. Maester Gislin has witnessed the tragedy, we spoke about it together this morning. I am sure you will still find him at home.”

Sandor didn’t need to be reminded of that. He spared the merchant’s life for now, but he wouldn’t spare Gislin. Gislin. Gislin had known all along someone wanted to steal Sandor’s little bird away. She wasn’t dead, of course. Alayne’s septa had been gone for a long time and apparently the very day she returned, Alayne was killed alll of a sudden. Did somebody really think Sandor would believe that? It was a lie. Everything was just a lie. Everything was a lie meant to hide Alayne away. But why? What exactly was going on here? Alayne was important to someone important. And that someone didn’t like Alayne being seen with Sandor, hence the sudden alteration of plans. Was someone jealous of Sandor?

Sandor wanted to storm into Gislin’s house in rage, but he stopped himself. He could smell blood in the air, fresh blood. Alayne… Sandor glanced up and down the street, then took hold of the knob and twisted slowly. His heart hammered loudly in his chest, but he entered the house as quietly as he could, a sword in his hand. Everything was still and quiet, but just like Alayne’s house, this place had changed as well. There was broken glass, Gislin’s possessions scattered all around the floor, everything in disarray. Somebody had fought here. Sandor took in a deep breath. Somebody had died here. 

Sure enough. There, behind a large desk, Sandor finally found the old maester in a pool of blood, his body rigid and eyes dead for hours. The old fool had a knife in his hand, what had he thought he’d accomplish with it? His stomach had been cut open in one swift motion, Gislin had never stood a chance.

Sandor closed the old man’s eyes and stood up. He had to admit somebody was certainly efficient in covering their tracks. Never mind. Sandor could always sniff out the truth. He would find his little bird, kill anyone who could ever pose a threat to her and take her away to his castle. Gislin had warned Sandor more than once, but again, had Gislin been Alayne’s friend, or a foe? Sandor needed to know who killed him and why. He searched the house from top to bottom, opened every book, read every letter. He found gold in the house, so it was beyond doubt that Gislin had been murdered with a purpose, probably to be silenced. Sandor looked under a mattress, under loose floor boards, even into a chimney. He didn’t find anything, not a single mention of Alayne.

Sandor sat himself down next to the corpse and tried to concentrate. What did he know? He knew Alayne. He knew she was innocent in all this, she’d never done anything wrong. She was always worried about doing something wrong, though. She was afraid of punishment. She’d experienced a lot of punishment for sure. She’d lived in an expensive house under a false identity. The owner didn’t know her, nor her father, only a whore and a septa. Alayne had helped the old maester who had seemed to care about her safety. The whore was dead and so was the maester. Only the septa remained and she was spreading lies.

Sandor heard a thud from underneath him. And then another. And another. What was it? Sandor turned his head to the dead man and finally noticed it. A trapdoor! “Alayne,” Sandor murmured to himself. He pushed the body out of his way, lit up a torch and quickly descended the stairs to the basement. “Alayne?” he called out into darkness. “Little bird, you’re safe now. Alayne? Alayne!”

Sandor looked around and his gaze was finally met with a pair of blue eyes. Small, deep-set eyes in a fat face. Sandor swallowed, fighting a wave of disappointment. He quickly checked the entire basement, but Alayne wasn’t there, just the boy, staring at him, aghast.

“Where is Alayne?” Sandor barked out, but he got no answer. “And who the fuck are you?”

“Maester, maester, maester...” the boy wept stupidly. Sandor’s mouth twitched and he pushed the boy towards the stairs. 

When they got out of the basement, the boy made a shrieking sound and knelt down by Gislin’s side, pressing his hands onto his stomach, as if he was trying to stop the bleeding. Didn’t he see there was nothing to stop anymore? Sandor observed the strange figure for a moment. The lad could be five-and-ten, but he was already as tall as Jaime. And he was crying in earnest now. 

“You’re the boy,” Sandor realized. “You’re Manny, aren’t you?”

“Maester, maester,” the boy kept shaking with the corpse.

The boy was big and fat, with scars on the back of his neck. Sandor could bet they went down the boy’s back, he’d seen enough lashing scars to recognize them immediately. Had the maester beaten him? It seemed unlikely, the scars were old and faded, the boy’s hair and hands clean, he was well fed and taken care of. And then there was the maester, hiding the boy instead of hiding himself.

“He’s saved your life,” Sandor realized, staring at the body. “And mayhaps he was trying to save Alayne, too,” he noted with bitterness. He should have listened to the old eunuch more. Sandor always kept thinking about Alayne, all the things he’d like to do to Alayne and his future with Alayne. He’d been trying to be near her as much as possible and he hadn’t paid attention to anything that could distract him from thinking about her. And now she was paying for his mistakes.

“Maester, maester,” the boy cried. Sandor wondered where Gislin had found him in the first place. Manny was probably just a son of one whore or another. But he wasn’t reacting to Sandor’s words at all, was he deaf? Seven hells, Sandor really hated people who couldn’t hear his choice of words for them.

“Maester Gislin’s dead, boy,” Sandor rasped, almost softly. “Do you know where Alayne is?”

“Maester, maester!”

Sandor sighed. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You remember me, boy, don’t you?”

The boy looked at him and looked at the dead man again. “Maester!” he pointed to the corpse, as if asking Sandor to help Gislin.

“I can’t help him, boy. Believe me, I wish I could. We’ll at least give him a proper burial, what do you say?”

“Maester...”

Sandor moved to lift up the body from the ground, but Manny was faster. He was still crying and yet he gently gathered the dead man in his arms. Alright, Manny wasn’t much of a talker, but at least he could hear Sandor well enough. Sandor lead the boy away, scowling in annoyance. He didn’t have Alayne, instead he had a crying dimwit boy on his hands now and a corpse of a eunuch to add to it. The joys of his life would never cease to amaze him.

Sandor did as he said and gave Gislin a proper burial. He doubted Littlefinger would care for such an expense and he had a creeping feeling he’d misjudged Gislin anyway. The old maester had saved his life after all. He’d probably saved Manny, too, and he’d been trying to keep Alayne safe as well. And now Gislin was dead and Sandor had lost his opportunity to ask him many questions he should have asked in the first place. Gislin had saved Sandor’s life and Sandor hadn’t helped him, he might have actually done the opposite. What if Gislin had died because of him?

“Do you have where to sleep, boy?” he asked once again.

“Maester.”

“No, boy, we moved your things away. But what now? Do you want to work for Littlefinger?”

The boy blinked. “Baelish. Baelish,” he started shaking his head violently. “No, no! No Baelish!”

“Hey, boy, calm down. Calm down, calm down!” Sandor barked in annoyance. “Alright, you know the man, you don’t have to work for him. But where else do you have to go?”

Sandor looked the boy up and down. He was strong, one day he could perhaps be as tall and fat as the king. The boy had washed Sandor, hadn’t he? Sandor cringed inwardly, imagining the lad washing his arse and cock. At least Manny had proven himself strong enough to manage him, which was actually quite admirable. Manny perhaps didn’t have much of brains, but that only meant he’d fit in the Red Keep perfectly.

“Have you ever polished a man’s armour?” Sandor asked.

Manny blinked, seemingly confused for a moment, but then he suddenly conjured up a clean piece of cloth out of nowhere. Before Sandor managed to say something, Manny kneeled down and started polishing Sandor’s shoes.

Sandor swore under his breath and jerked his leg away. “What in the seven hells you doing, boy?”

“Clean it,” Manny smiled. 

“No, you don’t need to clean it now.” Sandor snorted. 

The boy really wanted to start polishing his shoes right there at the graveyard, didn’t he? Sandor shook his head, grabbed the boy’s arm and glanced at the old maester’s grave once more. “I’ll take care of him,” he muttered stupidly towards the emptiness in front of him. Faces of the seven gods stared at him from the new grave, but they couldn’t see shit as usual. “I’ll take care of both of them, I swear it.” If Gislin had truly been protecting Alayne, Sandor would gut the man who killed him.

“Clegane,” the boy blurted out as if he’d just remembered the man’s name. 

Sandor turned his head to him. “What?”

“Maester said Clegane,” the boy’s words were slurred, but his meaning clear. He handed Sandor an expensive, white sheet of paper and smiled.

“Gislin gave this to you for me?” Sandor asked, perplexed.

“Maester,” Manny confirmed cheerfully. 

Sandor scowled and read the letter without saying another word. His heart sank. It wasn’t a letter for him, no new information was revealed there. It was just a letter from Baelish to Gislin, promising him some gold. A lot of gold, actually. So what, Sandor had already known Gislin had worked for Baelish, it was almost the only thing he actually knew about him. Baelish had written the letter on the day of his wife’s death, which was peculiar. Gislin could have been taking care of Lady Lysa, couldn’t he? It was improbable, though, nobody would have allowed a whores’ maester to touch a highborn lady. A large sum had obviously already been paid to Gislin and he was to get the rest after his task was completed. Interesting. What had Gislin been obliged to do? He’d died after he’d told Karpos about the death of the mysterious second septa, presumably Alayne. Alayne wasn’t dead and she had never been a septa in the first place, the false claim had to be a part of Gislin’s task then. Perhaps he hadn’t been so innocent after all. But what about Littlefinger? Gislin had clearly pointed towards the slimy widower. And what did Baelish have to do with Sandor’s little bird?


	10. Chapter 10

Sandor was being very reasonable, calm and composed. He’d made the mistake of being too distracted once, he wouldn’t do it again. Everybody was lying, everybody was a suspect, everybody could have taken his little bird away. Would it help Alayne if he killed every man in the city?

Sandor started with questioning some reliable whores. He didn’t learn much, but he did learn a thing or two. Littlefinger had apparently informed women about Gislin’s death even before Sandor buried the man, which was interesting. Sandor hadn’t spoken with anyone about Gislin, so he was quite sure that only Gislin’s murderers could have known about the maester’s fate so early. And then there was Manny, who was a well-known figure to whores and who had apparently worked as a cleaner in a brothel throughout his childhood, until Gislin took him away. Sandor was now convinced that Manny had suffered a lot of abuse in Littlefinger’s establishment and it was also almost certainly Littlefinger who paid for Gislin’s death. It almost looked as if Littlefinger had asked Gislin to lie about Alayne’s death and then instead of paying him, he just had him killed off. But why? Why all that? The memory of Sandor’s last conversation with Littlefinger came back to him. Littlefinger had spoken about Alayne, hadn’t he? But he’d called her a bastard. Nobody in the sept had known her identity and yet Littlefinger had somehow known she was a bastard. Baelish had known Alayne all along, Sandor was certain of it. What did he want of her? 

Alayne was exceptionally beautiful and she seemed very pure and educated. Littlefinger could get a lot for her, especially if she was by any chance still a maiden. He could get a lot for one night, but he could get much more if he sold her off as a slave to a foreign land. Littlefinger luckily didn’t get any new whores recently and no ship had left the shores in the previous two days because of bad weather. The idea didn’t quite fit anyway. Littlefinger had no reason to be hiding a beautiful girl, he would want to get money out of her as soon as possible. Baelish himself had never had any lovers as far as Sandor knew, he never even used his whores, he’d been devoted to Lady Lysa and to Lady Catelyn beforehand. What did he want from Alayne then?

Sandor spent two days with his inquiries and with each passing hour he was getting more and more anxious. There were no new septas in any motherhouse, nobody had ever heard of Septa Odila, nobody had seen Alayne. Sandor couldn’t sleep at night, too haunted by the imagination of suffering Alayne. Was she being sold? Beaten? Raped? Was she lying in her bed, too, crying herself to sleep? Littlefinger was obviously heavily involved in her disappearance, but Sandor didn’t want to confront him yet. He needed more information and it was possible Baelish wouldn’t tell him anything even with a dagger at his throat. Baelish was an unpredictable opponent and Sandor couldn’t take any risks, but all the patient treading was driving him insane. He needed Alayne, he needed to hold her in his arms, feel her warm breath, her life. He needed her. Why in the seven hells hadn’t he told her about his feelings when he’d had the time? Why had he waited?

Sandor followed Littlefinger, but it didn’t lead him anywhere. One thing was certain, if Master of Coin himself was involved in Alayne’s abduction, a very wealthy and powerful bugger was paying him. A Baratheon, or a Lannister. But most probably a Stark. Sandor rubbed his tired eyes. He really needed rest, but he couldn’t rest. Not without Alayne. Luckily it was all slowly starting to make sense. Alayne didn’t like her father. Why? Because he’d sold her off to Baelish, that was why. Someone wanted to have the most beautiful girl in the realm, so Littlefinger obediently bought her and kept her hidden away. But who? Who wanted Alayne?

The king was taking off to inspect the city, as he claimed, laughing. Everybody knew how thorough his inspections of brothels were, so nobody was surprised by his jokes. Only Sandor stopped in his tracks, narrowing his eyes at the man. The king was joking about a young girl he wanted to visit and Sandor wondered whether the man could have something to do with Alayne’s abduction. He knew how easy it was to get obsessed with Alayne, it wouldn’t be surprising if her beauty bewitched the king as well. 

Robert Baratheon hadn’t been a bad warrior at one point, he wasn’t as versatile as Sandor, but at his prime he would have stood a chance against him, Sandor had to give him that. Still, he’d never been the best swordsman and a warhammer was a bloody stupid weapon, far too ineffective for Sandor’s liking. A warhammer was useful when fighting against someone who counted on their armour too much, but Sandor never did that. He’d win. If the king thought he could keep Alayne for himself, Sandor would defeat him with ease.

Sandor watched as Lancel Lannister hurried to supply Robert with more wine, he watched the king jovially share some more tawdry jokes, he watched the poor horse carry Robert’s entire weight away. The king was a fool, but no, he wouldn’t have thought of such an elaborate plan to steal Sandor’s bride away. And if he had, Sandor would give him the painful death he deserved for his treatment of Cersei anyway. 

Sandor stepped into the castle. He’d bought nice shoes for Manny, he hoped they would fit him. The boy didn’t have bad clothes, but it wasn’t enough for a squire. Besides, Sandor remembered all too well what it was like, growing up, when he grew out of new shoes every turn of the moon. Gislin had been just a small man, he could never understand the struggle of finding good shoes for a larger boy, whose feet grew too much, too fast.

“Clegane!” Sandor heard a deep voice call after him.

“Lord Stark,” Sandor rasped back. 

Sandor watched the man approach him. He’d never liked the lord, but now he was eyeing him with a new suspicion. Sandor remembered boasting to Alayne once that after Gregor’s death he now had the biggest greatsword in Westeros. He perhaps wanted her to be a little amazed. Just a little bit. She could have chirped something in astonishment, couldn’t she? But she shook her beautiful head instead and claimed that it was impossible, because it was Ned Stark who had the biggest sword, Ice. Sandor didn’t like her remark. Not only Alayne wasn’t impressed with Sandor’s sword, she also seemed to have a very inflated imagination of the Northern lord. And she knew the name of his sword. How many commoners could say that? Sandor hadn’t questioned Alayne then, but he should have. How did she know the sword’s name?

“I’m looking for the king,” the man announced, full of himself as usual.

“Well, I’m not his wet-nurse,” Sandor snarled, eyeing the man’s tiny longsword in annoyance. Lord Stark wasn’t even carrying his famous greatsword with him, he looked about as fierce as a grumpy pup.

“I need to speak with him.”

“Then you shouldn’t waste your time with me, should you?”

Ned Stark raised his eyebrows critically. “I need you to assist the queen, she will be leaving for the Casterly Rock along with her children. You are to accompany her on her journey.”

Sandor didn’t let his surprise show. Had something happened to Tywin Lannister? Sandor couldn’t imagine the man ever getting sick. “When are we leaving?” he asked.

“As soon as possible. Ser Jaime is not present at the moment, but should he return and try to get to the queen, I will need you to keep him away from her.”

“And why would I do that?” Sandor sneered.

“It is for the better.”

“I take my orders from the queen, my lord,” Sandor growled, towering above the man. “I need to hear this from her first.” He also needed time to find Alayne. Why was Ned Stark suddenly so keen on getting Sandor out of the castle? Sandor contemplated the dark circles under the lord’s eyes, his pale complexion and the shifty gaze. Was it guilty conscience haunting him? Had Lord Eddard abducted Alayne? Alayne had always wanted Sandor to talk about the Starks and she knew too much about them anyway. She trusted them, she thought they were better than anyone else. Why? Who had filled her head with tales of Ned Stark’s greatness?

The Warden of the North clenched his jaw. “As soon as I find the king, he will want to hold an important hearing, the queen has to be gone by then, do you understand?”

“I do, there will be a very important hearing in a whorehouse, since that’s where you’ll find the king,” Sandor replied in a particularly polite tone. “I’m sure the king will appreciate your thoughtfulness, my lord.”

“You said you didn’t know where the king was,” the bloody wolf reminded him coldly.

“I said I’m not his wet-nurse. I should think I don’t have the teats to the King’s taste.”

Ned Stark’s face twisted with displeasure and Sandor had to fight back a smile. What was the northern lord even trying to accomplish, trying to separate Cersei and Jaime? Was he such a fool he planned to act upon his suspicions? Ned Stark loved the King, he loved to show off their friendship, alright. But did Ned Stark have any idea what his beloved friend had done to Cersei, how he treated his wife? Oh, yes, he knew about it, he’d seen enough to know. But Ned Stark didn’t have a problem with it, did he? He despised Tywin Lannister, so it was fine for Robert to torment Tywin’s daughter. And of course, Lord Stark had nothing against marital rape, seeing how common it was among all the high-born cunts. He’d probably raped his own wife countless times until she died from all the misery. How honourable. Sandor didn’t mind Ned Stark risking his neck for some stupid revenge against Cersei, but what about the girl, did Ned Stark ever bother to think about his daughter? Or was he rather thinking about Alayne? Had he been meeting with her somewhere in secret, making her promises, boasting to her about his big sword? 

“Just go to the queen, Clegane,” the man finally snapped.

Sandor didn’t even bother to reply to that. Ned Stark always thought that everybody who didn’t speak of honour ten times a day was somehow worse than him. Did women think he was handsome? The stupid wolf probably had a small dick anyway. Women found him attractive just because he was rich and out of their reach, but Lady Stark had preferred even the little finger of Lord Baelish to her husband. That spoke volumes about Ned Stark’s quality as a husband. His wife had been forced to marry him and he immediately got her heavy with a child, but he left just as soon, he was unfaithful to her and then had the nerve to force her to raise his bastard child as her own. No wonder Lady Catelyn had died so young. 

Had Alayne been meeting with Ned Stark? It could actually explain a lot. Sandor clenched his fists, imagining the cold northerner telling Sandor’s little bird he’d keep her safe. Keep her safe! The honourable Lord Eddard of Winterfell was utterly incompetent in keeping anybody safe. He probably couldn’t have helped his father and older brother, but Ned Stark let down the rest of his siblings, his wife and daughter, he let the buggering Imp cripple his son and he agreed to give his only living daughter to Joffrey without knowing anything about him. And he hadn’t broken the betrothal even after Joffrey had proven what a cunt he was. Ned Stark had been willing to kill his daughter’s direwolf, instead of standing up to his friend. He didn’t care about the crown’s debts and suffering of commoners, he let the king waste a fortune on a stupid tourney, instead of doing his work as the Hand and bringing the king to reason. Eddard Stark couldn’t keep anyone safe, he just sat at his revered seat, all serious and moral, perplexed that the world wasn’t as perfect as he would have liked it to be. Lord Eddard wouldn’t know how to take care of Alayne, he didn’t know how to take care of anything. And oh, by the way, Ice was much smaller than Sandor’s sword. Sandor had last had a greatsword as small as Ice when he was thirteen. He should have told that to Alayne. He should have. 

But Sandor was better than that. He didn’t give a rat’s arse about honour. He would find his woman, he’d wrap his cloak around her and keep her safe for the rest of their days. Yes, he was perhaps trying to be a better man, but never at the cost of Alayne’s safety. He didn’t care how many people he had to kill to keep Alayne safe. He didn’t care whether there was any honour in protecting his family. The only problem was he didn’t have his family, he didn’t have Alayne. Yet. He didn’t have them yet. But that would change soon and Sandor would never be an honourable fool like Ned Stark, he’d make damn sure to keep his family safe.

Cersei obviously didn’t think much about the northerner, either. “Of course I am not leaving,” she replied drily, when Sandor informed her about his encounter. “Lord Stark must have been mistaken. He doesn’t seem to fare well in the southern sun, does he?” she said with a smile full of venom. “Don’t pay any attention to his ramblings, Clegane, you have a free day and you ought to use it to get ready for your journey. My father will soon need your services elsewhere.”

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Sandor nodded, relieved. He needed time to find Alayne, he couldn’t leave King’s Landing yet. But so far he had no idea where to look for his sweet bird.

Sandor changed into more comfortable clothes. Armour was good for fighting, but right now he needed more mobility and less noise. He saw Ned Stark again, this time in deep prayer in godswood. Who had time for prayer in the middle of the day? A man before a battle. Or a man with truly bad conscience. Sandor dared to take a step a little closer. Lord Eddard had a small painting in his hands, a portrait. Sandor could see it now. A portrait of a woman. With red hair. Seven hells. He had a painting of Alayne. The buggering wolf had was praying with a painting of Alayne in his hands! Sandor’s mouth twitched madly, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t do anything, not now, not yet. He had to stay calm. Calm.

That northern piece of shit had really fallen for Alayne. Ned Stark was a widower, too long without a woman. He didn’t need another political match and Sandor didn’t blame him for wanting something more. The highborn lord however didn’t have any reason to be so secretive about his love, though. Unless… Unless Alayne didn’t want him. Sandor played with a dagger in his hand. That was it! Alayne was resisting Ned Stark, she didn’t share with him what she had with Sandor. The northerner trusted Baelish and Baelish liked having leverage over more powerful lords. That was why Littlefinger had slowly, but surely manipulated Alayne into thinking that Ned Stark was like a buggering hero of old tales and the North was the most beautiful place in the world. But when Alayne started seeing Sandor, the wolf panicked and Baelish had to quickly hide Alayne away in a new place. Gislin knew too much, so he was removed. Sandor took in a deep breath. The truth was obvious now. He’d gut them both, Baelish and Stark. He’d gut them and cut their cocks off. And then he’d strangle them. Or strangle them first? 

Sandor kept planning the amazing bloodshed throughout the rest of the day, even when spying on Littlefinger. He couldn’t bear the thought of Alayne being mistreated, but it was all making sense now. Everything was making sense until Manny hit Sandor in the arm.

“What do you think you are doing, boy?” Sandor grumbled. His squires always annoyed him, but none of them had ever dared to hit him. It was a dark night and Sandor was in a foul mood. It wasn’t wise to provoke him.

Only then Sandor noticed the boy’s defensive posture. Manny hadn’t wanted to hit him, he was just trying to make himself small, his hand protecting the exposed skin of his neck. Sandor glanced over to Littlefinger’s establishment and caught a glimpse of a familiar face. It was Regin, a sellsword working for Baelish. Why did a sellsword visit Baelish in the middle of a night?

Sandor turned to Manny. “Has that man beaten you?”

“Alayne,” Manny whimpered. 

“Has he beaten Alayne?” Sandor asked, horrified by the idea.

“Alayne, Alayne.”

Sandor shook his head: “Stay here. Don’t go anywhere.”

A shadow, among shadows, Sandor moved quietly through the darkness. Littlefinger’s two most trusted men were talking with Regin, but Sandor could make out only a few words of their conversation.

“...I think we’ve all had enough...”

“…like the bedding...”

“…new gloves…”

Sandor stepped a bit closer and idly noticed that his own hands were trembling. Sandor truly hated how exhausted he was feeling, he didn't need sleep, he needed Alayne.

“...tomorrow… be over...”

“...girl...”

“...night… wedding...”

Sandor’s hand twitched over his sword. He wanted to cut them all to pieces, kill Littlefinger, kill Ned Stark and be done with it. He wasn’t made for this. He wanted to fight for his little bird, shout, attack, not eavesdrop. He couldn’t hear shit anyway. And the men stepped even further away from Sandor. Seven hells.

A wedding. Sandor swallowed. What wedding, whose wedding? Ned Stark had been so anxious to get Sandor out of the city as soon as possible and now there was a wedding… Tomorrow, they said. Lord Eddard wanted to force Alayne to marry him, force a child into her womb and tie her to himself and… and… Sandor ground his teeth. He’d kill him. And then again and again. Ned Stark was to be the deadest person ever. And then Sandor would kill him again.

Sandor returned to Manny. “I’ll follow the man. You’ll return home, boy, do you understand? We’ve both had enough of following Littlefinger for one day. Just go home and get some sleep.”

“Alayne.”

“I’ll find her. Now go, boy, go.”

Manny was a good lad, obeying Sandor without further protests. Sandor jumped into the saddle and urged Stranger to follow the man. He didn’t want to be noticed, though, so he had to ride down different streets, occasionally checking that the man was still heading in the same direction and disappearing into the night again…

“What do you want from me, Hound?” he suddenly heard from behind his back. Seven bloody hells, the man managed to sneak behind him. Sandor really wasn’t made for spying on anyone, these were the moments when Sandor wished he was smaller, less conspicuous. And wished he was less tired, more alert.

The Sandor managed to keep his expression bland, even though Regin was pointing a crossbow at him. “An information.. And I’m willing to pay you good money for it, too.”

The man furrowed his brows. “What information?”

“I need to find one book.”

“Why in the seven hells should I know anything about a book?”

“I think you paid a visit to Maester Gislin recently,” Sandor replied calmly.

“What of it?”

“He had books in his house, very valuable books. I’m searching for one of them. There were fish with golden scales engraved on the cover. I would pay ten thousand dragons to anyone who brings me to that book today.”

“Ten thousand...” the man gaped. “For a book? Seven hells, how does a book… Bloody hells… A blue book? With golden fish?”

“That’s the one. Have you seen it?”

“I might have. Ten thousand…” his features hardened again. “You think I’ll believe that?”

“The book’s a key to a hidden treasure. I have one half, I want the other, precious half.”

The man bit his lip. “A treasure? If it wasn’t you, Hound, I’d have said you’re shitting me, but as it is… If I bring the book to you, a half of the treasure should be mine, shouldn’t it? Not just measly ten thousand dragons.”

Sandor snorted. “If you don’t want them, fine, I can do without the book,” he turned Stranger around.

“Hey, wait a moment. Wait a moment, I’m not saying…” Regin scratched his beard. “Alright, it’s a deal. I’ll bring it to you tomorrow. The book.”

“I need it today. I’m leaving, I have no time to spare.”

“But I don’t have it with me, damn it!” the man was getting agitated and he even put down the crossbow. “I should have known… the way the bitch clung to it…” he murmured to himself. “I’ll get you the book, I just need time.”

“Why should I believe you? Either you know where it is, or you don’t. But you don’t, do you?” Sandor kept pressing the man. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Wait, wait! You know what? You go take the money, I’ll go fetch the book and we’ll meet here.”

“Sure, I’ll you meet here and a whole lot of cut-throats will come to welcome me with you. Do you have me for a fool?” Sandor growled, knowing full well how beastly he looked in the moonlight. “Either I’ll go with you for the book, or the deal is off.”

“Alright. Alright, we’ll go together,” the man agreed. “Alright. But I’ll go with you back to the Red Keep then. And don’t think you can just get rid of me, don’t forget I work for Lord Baelish!”

“I won’t forget it,” Sandor promised truthfully. 

Regin was talkative, but he never chose the right topics. “I’ve heard about the king. Is it true? Is he injured?” he asked.

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear. He’s just too drunk and fat, that’s all.”

“Hmm, I thought so. He’s fun, he shouldn’t die just yet.”

Regin kept blathering on about the king, instead of saying something useful about Baelish, Gislin or Alayne. Sandor didn’t care about Robert, but he didn’t dare to ask anything about Alayne, either, he couldn’t risk. The closer he was getting to her, the more scared he was. What had his sweet lady suffered? Had Ned Stark raped her, had Baelish tortured her, was she in pain? Was she… no, of course she was alive. She was. Had she lost all hope? And what if she wasn’t there at all, what if this was just a false lead? Sandor was glad for the shield of darkness which hid the trepidation in his face. At dawn they finally arrived to a building unknown to Sandor. It looked almost like a small motherhouse and there were symbols of the Seven everywhere, but it couldn’t be a motherhouse, Sandor had checked every one of those in King’s Landing. And then there were guards, guards everywhere. Too many guards to overpower, too many archers.

“What’s this place?” Sandor asked.

“It’s where the book is,” Regin grinned. “Just wait here, m’lord. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“No, we had a deal, remember?”

“But you can’t follow me in there!” Regin protested. “It’s guarded, Lord Baelish would never forgive me for letting someone in.”

“Will he give you ten thousand golden dragons, too?”

The man hesitated. “Fifteen thousand.”

“What?” Sandor barked out.

“Hey, I’m not only risking my life here, but my income, too!

“Twelve thousand.”

“Thirteen.”

Sandor sighed. “Deal. Can we go in now?”

Regin was smiling victoriously. He still didn’t completely trust Sandor, but he also didn’t believe that the Hound would deceive him. Sandor’s reputation was helpful in this regard at least.

“I just have to warn you,” Regin said. “The book is with a girl, she must have stolen it from Gislin.”

“A girl?” Sandor asked innocently.

“Well, a woman, actually. A proper woman with great teats and a hot wet cunt.”

Sandor froze, unable to breathe. “You’ve had her?” he asked hoarsely.

“No, not yet,” the man shook his head with disappointment. “But I was paid to ruffle up her feathers once and scare her a little, you know? Someone wanted to look like a hero saving her from me, you know the drill.” Regin lead Sandor down a corridor, passing yet another guard. What in the seven hells was this place? Sandor made sure to remember every corner, every weapon he saw. “The girl’s a redhead, have you ever fucked a redhead? Man, let me tell you, the girl is red all over and fiery as hell. If it wasn’t for the money, I’d have shagged the life out of her. And that’s what we’ll do now!”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if I am to leave Littlefinger, why not have some fun first, huh? You should have seen the girl, the way she cried and begged us like a little bitch to leave her be. It was so funny.”

“She cried?” Sandor asked, unable to completely keep the pain out of his voice.

“Oh yes, it was quite fetching.” They stepped into a chamber that seemed to serve as a drawing room. “Here we are,” he stopped in front of wooden door. “This is her room, I know where she has the book.”

“You’ve made her cry and you think it’s funny?” Sandor repeated quietly, his face calm and expressionless.

The man snorted. “You will think it’s funny, too, just wait. I’ll go first, you’ll hold her in place, alright?”

“What if I told you I don’t share your humour?” Sandor asked, his voice a barely audible growl. 

“Come on, Hound, there is more to life than a treasure! And you’ll see, the frightened little sounds she makes, they’d make even a little boy hard.”

Sandor’s mouth twitched and he felt his face twist into a horrifying grimace. “What if I told you the girl you tormented is my love and bride?” he asked lowly.

“What?” Regin gasped. His eyes widened comically and he quickly reached for his dagger. Too late. Sandor didn’t bother with a sword, the man didn’t deserve such honour. Instead Sandor’s fist connected with his skull, throwing the man into the wall. All that remained of Regin’s filthy life was an ugly stain on the wall. Sandor punched the sellsword once more for a good measure and swiftly hid his body in an armoire. He moved a large vase to cover the blood stains and looked around in satisfaction. His hand hurt a little, but he felt much better now.

Sandor quietly opened the door and stepped inside a small room, a sword in his hand. To his great disappointment he didn’t find anybody there, but the familiar aroma of flowers and lemons was present, lingering in the air, welcoming him. There was the spinning wheel, there was the embroidery, there was a dress well known to him. Alayne was there, somewhere. He’d found her.


	11. Chapter 11

Alayne spent her whole morning in prayer. She prayed for the Starks, for her deceased friends and for Sandor Clegane. She prayed that nothing bad would happen to him. She’d been told that Maester Gislin had been murdered by burglars, which meant sweet Manny was dead, too. She knew it was her fault, she brought death upon everyone. Sandor would probably be next. But he couldn’t. She prayed and prayed for the Mother’s mercy, tears flowing down her cheeks. She felt as if she hadn’t stopped crying in the last days. Everything had been so great, until it was not. Now Gislin was dead and Manny, too. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw them, dead faces full of pain in front of her. And Clegane… how could she ever protect him from her curse? What did she have to do?

It was an important day. Alayne would finally become a novice, she would take her first step to become a real septa. She would spend the rest of her days serving the Seven and the gods would keep Clegane safe. She prayed now to the Warrior, begging him to give Sandor strength to survive anything. She didn’t pray to the Warrior often, the last time had been several moon turns ago, but now she needed his help.

“Alayne,” Septa Odila interrupted her prayers. “Come, haven’t you heard the bells?”

“Bells? No, is it time for the lunch already?” she was surprised how fast time had flown.

“No, the bad news… Oh, child, how could you have not noticed? What have you been thinking about again?”

Alayne couldn’t admit for whom she’d prayed and the secret made her flustered. “Bad news?” she asked, full of fear.

Clegane was dead, she realized immediately. Killed in fire or something even worse. He was dead. Because of her.

“The king has died, a tragical accident they say. We have a new king now, king Joffrey.”

“Oh.” The king. And Sandor wasn’t a king. Sandor wasn’t dead. Alayne should have been devastated, but instead she felt relieved. Clegane was alive, wasn’t he? She’d be a good septa and the Seven would spare him. “But I have never met the king!” she said defensively. 

Septa frowned. “Don’t make everything about yourself, child,” she rightfully scolded her. “The king was a sinner and the Seven have punished him for his gluttony. His sins have brought great misfortune to people around him, you should learn from that.”

“I will,” Alayne nodded in deference.

“Now, this unfortunately significantly changes our plans. Nobody has time for new septas, which is an obvious sign from the Seven. You wanted to become a septa, but the Seven have shown us they do not wish to accept you into their closest circle. We have to defer to their will, do we not?”

“We do, but…”

“There is no but, child. We have to accept the will of the Seven. It is therefore necessary to consider other options.”

Alayne swallowed, desperately trying not to cry. It was all so sudden, she stood stunned, unable to keep up with Odila’s steps. Her whole life had crumbled around her in a single moment. And not the first time. She had waited to be a septa her entire life and now her chances were ruined. How would she ever find the gods’ forgiveness now? Was she forever forsaken? “I should… I should become a silent sister?”

“No, no, this is obviously not your role. The Seven have shown us they want you to search for your path elsewhere. It must have been your shameful behaviour these past moon turns that made them shun you,” the septa noted with sadness.

Alayne quickly wiped a tear threatening to slide down her cheek. “Is there...” she sniffled. “Is there nothing I could do?”

Septa Odila looked her up and down. “There are of course other ways you could still earn the gods’ grace,” she admitted reluctantly. “You could still prove you are a good, obedient woman in a marriage I guess.”

“A marriage?” Alayne gasped. Such thought hadn’t even occurred to her. Sansa Stark had dreamt of marriage, but Alayne Stone was supposed to become a septa, not a wife.

“Don’t be so surprised, child, you have been very wilful, but by serving your husband well you could still prove your obedience.”

“But I have studied to be a septa!”

“Not well enough, unfortunately. Or do you want to disrespect the Seven again?”

“No, no!” Alayne assured Septa Odila quickly, trembling in fear. She’d never wanted to disrespect the Seven, never. “I’ll do whatever the Seven ask of me!”

Septa Odila put her bony finger under her chin, lifting her head and she observed Alayne for a moment. “Very well. But this time you would have to finally behave properly, submit yourself completely to your husband and in extension to the Seven. You’ve had enough second chances, I fear there will not be another one. Men are naturally stronger than women, a good man could perhaps tame you better than me,” she sighed in resignation.

It was so odd, thinking about marriage. Alayne was supposed to become a septa. But still, there could be some truth in the septa’s words. She’d felt very good in presence of Gislin and Manny and she always felt her best when she was with Clegane. She didn’t think about her sins when she was with him, she felt more alive than ever. Was it the natural strength of men that made her feel that way? Was she allowed not to think about her sins, to feel free? Clegane was very strong, it made sense he’d have the strongest influence on her. And she’d been a positive influence on him, too, she thought proudly. They were drawing the best out of each other.

“But I have studied to be a septa, there is no boy I love.”

“Marriage of love is just a sinner’s name for the marriage of lust. A woman has to find love in serving her husband.”

“Oh.”

“Your husband should know you well, know your flaws and lead you to the grace of the Seven. A man of a strong character.”

Some men did have very strong characters. Like Sandor Clegane. He’d been able to survive more than anyone else and even though nobody had ever helped him, he’d saved Linza and other people as well. Not that Alayne considered him as an option for a marriage, she was only a bastard after all, but it was nice to see there were men like that out there.

The septa continued. “We simply need to find you a husband who would be gentle to you and whose intentions you could trust.”

Trust, trust. Could she trust a man to be gentle with her? She didn’t like when strange men tried to touch her, she didn’t even like what they said about her body. Granted, when Clegane had stroked her cheek or touched her hair, she didn’t mind the roughness of his hands. A man like him would be very gentle with her, hiss kisses soft and fluttering. His manhood was a scarier thing, though, it would never fit in. Oh no, what was she thinking about? Alayne blushed. She couldn’t be thinking about this. Clegane was the ugliest man in Westeros and completely incompatible with her, she didn’t want him in her bed, of course. 

“Perhaps somebody like Lord Baelish,” Septa Odila suggested. “You have caused him a lot of trouble, but despite that he has always been very patient with you.”

“But I do not know many men.” At least not those who were alive. Every man she befriended eventually died.

“That is good. If I haven’t inspected your maidenhead myself, I would not have believed there was still some virtue left in you. After what I’ve learnt...” she shook her head, leaving the sentence unfinished. “But Lord Baelish has forgiven you for your shameful behaviour. It is sad what happened to his wife, but it was the will of the Seven. A man of his qualities needs a woman by his side. If you behaved well, he could possibly do you the honour.”

Lord Baelish? Alayne’s head was spinning. “But he’s my father!” she replied, appalled by the prospect.

“He is your protector, you were not born out of his seed,” septa reminded her coldly. “He knows your sins and he is fond of you regardless, which can’t be expected of another man. I have known him since he was a babe in a cradle and I know how patient he is. If you serve him well, obey him in everything and give him strong sons, you could still prove your worth to the Seven.”

The good septa spoke wisely, and yet Alayne couldn’t find it in herself to agree with such proposition. She was being ungrateful again, wasn’t she? Why was she always apprehensive of her father’s kisses? He’d always been so kind to her and despite that, Alayne always shuddered whenever he touched her. Septa Odila was right, Alayne had a long way to go, despite all her efforts, she still wasn’t humble enough.

“I don’t think he would want me,” she said quietly.

“Then you have to show him you could be a docile wife to him. He cannot come today, because of the king’s death, but you should visit him and comfort him in these difficult times. If you are good, you could beg him to marry you and he might be merciful enough to help you.”

“Oh.”

“Well? Will you take this opportunity?”

“Of course, I… I want to be good.”

“Very well. You will go and change into your blue dress now, Lord Baelish likes it very much. You will be leaving at noon.”

“Are you not going with me?” Alayne asked in surprise.

“No, I will spend the day in prayers for the king. But you will be with Lord Baelish and he knows best what is good for you, child.”

Alayne walked to her chamber, hardly breathing from anxiety. Why was she so wicked? Petyr was her protector, her saviour, he was a lord and yet she feared the prospect of marriage with him. She didn’t deserve any of the blessings of the Seven. And she was crying. And not for the king. How could she be crying for herself in such hard times?

Back in her chamber, Alayne obediently prepared her blue dress, but looking at it only increased her uneasiness. She glanced to the window. It was so beautiful and large, a window into a peaceful garden. The whole wéstate belonged to Petyr Baelish, but he’d lent it to the service of the Seven. Septa Odila had been right, he was an incredibly generous man. But when Alayne saw little birds in the branches of trees, all she could think of was Sandor Clegane. He was kind, too. In his own, unconventional way. Alayne had loved their moments away from the city. Alayne opened the window and longing to feel the same freedom again, she climbed up to stand in it. Her heart throbbed with pleasure as she listened to the love songs of the birds. A soft breeze was lovingly caressing the land, until every blade of grass and every leaf seemed to flutter and dance to the joyous music. Alayne closed her eyes and spread her arms, enjoying the feeling of the sunshine on her skin. She savoured the peaceful moment, feeling free like a little...

A hand clamped over her mouth from behind, a huge arm encircled her torso and crushed her against a muscled body. “What the fuck are you doing, girl?” she heard an angry rasp in her ear. Clegane dragged her away from the window and threw her savagely down on her bed, pinning her there with his body.

What was happening? Alayne shivered in fear. She had seen Clegane broken and hurt, even furious, but she’d never seen so much rage in his eyes. How had he got there so suddenly, what was he doing, what did he want of her? What? What?

“Are you hurt?” he asked, panting. “Little bird, what have they done to you?”

“My lord, I… nothing, nothing...”

“Don’t lie to me, girl!” he snarled, his voice full of hate. “Don’t! What have they done?” his hands were frantically running over her body. “What?” 

Why was he so furious? Alayne felt tears in her eyes. She thought they were friends, they’d been so close together and now Clegane was looking at her as if he wanted to murder her. 

“My lord...”

“Enough of your lords. Alayne, what have they done to you? Are you hurt?”

“My lord, the bells...”

“I know, I’ve heard them, the king is dead. Who cares?” he growled. “Are you hurt? What have they done? What’s happened?” He spoke so fast Alayne almost didn’t comprehend all his questions. 

“No, I’m not hurt at all, please believe me, please.”

He searched in her eyes for a moment, before touching his forehead to hers, breathing heavily. “How could you? How…” he brushed his fingers through her hair. “Seven hells, girl, your life is so precious, how could you ever… damn it. You’re everything, you can’t just… you can’t,” his voice broke.

“My lord, I beg forgiveness...”

“No,” he cupped her face in his rough hands. “No. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, little bird, I should have known. I tried to find you as soon as possible, but I shouldn’t have let this happen in the first place. I’m so sorry.”

“What do you mean, my lord?” 

“I’ll take you away and keep you safe, I swear,” he looked tired, but his face was full of raw emotions Alayne didn’t understand. “You’ll get anything you want, anything you need. I won’t let this happen again, I swear. You’re safe.”

Oh. Had he come, because he’d worried for her safety? Alayne was a bastard, a man like him should never worry about a woman like her. Perhaps he considered her his friend after all. Just the thought warmed Alayne’s heart. She could excuse his inappropriate behaviour. Even when he buried his nose into her hair, she wasn’t shocked, it was a familiar gesture she even found quite endearing now. Still, having his enormous form looming above her was more than a little unsettling.

“My lord...” she said softly, but he didn’t react. “Sandor?” she stroked his hair.

He slowly raised his head, his eyes wide open, watching her. “Alayne...” he breathed out. She cupped his cheek, feeling the wetness under her palm. Clegane didn’t reply, though, instead he lowered his mouth to hers and slowly, tentatively kissed her. It was a beautiful kiss, just like in her dreams. He looked at her then with a burning question in his eyes. Sandor’s touch was completely different than her father’s kisses. Almost… pleasant? Could kisses be pleasant? Alayne blushed and gave Sandor a shy smile, not knowing what to say. But a mere moment later, she was completely robbed of her breath. Sandor’s lips came down in a crushing kiss and the man groaned loudly, touching his tongue to hers. He had one hand in her hair, ruthlessly forcing her head back so he had a better access to her mouth, while the other hand was running over her body in a particularly indecent manner. 

Sandor’s kisses were urgent and utterly overwhelming, but Alayne found herself responding to them, tenderly kissing him back. She wanted her kisses to be very demure and ladylike, but Sandor was misbehaving, attacking even the crook of her neck, sucking and biting her sensitive skin. His mouth was on her neck and then back on her lips, kissing Alayne firmly and possessively. When he nibbled at her lip, Alayne decided to show him how inappropriate he was being, and purposefully bit him back. It didn’t make him any gentler, instead he grunted and bucked his hips into her. The giant warrior truly craved her touch, didn’t he? Alayne was important to him. It was so thrilling. She felt safe and warm in Clegane’s arms, even happy. She stopped for a moment, wondering whether the gods would punish her for such behaviour, but she got immediately distracted by Sandor’s ministrations.

“Sandor!” she moaned, when his kisses moved past her collarbone.

He smiled at that, obviously delighted with her responses. Thankfully, he was able to keep most of his weight off her, balancing himself on his elbows, but it was not enough, because Alaye could feel his manhood pressed against her anyway. A very large manhood. And very very hard. Alayne tried to shift under him a little, but Sandor didn’t let her.

“You have to be safe, little bird. Promise me you won’t try it again, promise me,” he begged desperately, nuzzling her ear.

Alayne didn’t mean anything bad by shifting in her bed, she only didn’t want to feel Sandor’s member. But she could hardly tell him that, could she? She swallowed, anxious that she had insulted him.

He stroked her hair, looking deep into her eyes. “I love you, little bird. I should have told you, I was a bloody fool. I love you so much,” he kissed her again. 

What? What was he saying? 

“I shouldn’t have waited, it’s all my fault,” Clegane said apologetically. “I love you, I… seven hells.”

Alayne bit her lip. All the declarations of love in books were quite different than this. What was a proper response in her situation? What did the Seven want?

“Say something,” the man pleaded, looking oddly vulnerable for such a giant man.

She gave him a shaky smile. “Sandor...”

His expression immediately brightened. “I love when you say it,” he murmured, caressing her cheek. “Bugger the titles, I’m Sandor to you. Your Sandor, if you’ll have me.”

Alayne gasped. “What do you mean?”

“Will you marry me, little bird?” he asked pleadingly.

The world had gone mad. Alayne was supposed to become a septa. But no, the gods didn’t want that. She was supposed to become Petyr’s wife. But the gods had sent her Sandor Clegane… “But I’m a bastard!” she tried to be at least a little reasonable.

“Stop repeating that,” he rasped, annoyed again. “You’re the sweetest little bird. And I promise that I’ll spent my lifetime doing my best to make you safe and happy.” He looked at her, waiting for a moment, before his mouth twitched. “You don’t have to give me the answer now, of course,” he added, his voice quivering. “I’ll take you away, to safety, and you can take as much time as you need to decide. I’ll protect you either way, you don’t have to worry about that.”

He’d protect her even if she didn’t do what he wanted? Alayne knew Sandor speaking truth, but it was still an unbelievable declaration. She remembered all the times when she disobeyed Petyr, how he always started to doubt whether she deserved his protection. But Sandor was different, he was… Sandor. Her Sandor.

“I will,” Alayne blurted out, surprising even herself.

“What?” he breathed out.

“I will marry you, Sandor,” she announced, a little too eagerly.

He stared at her in astonishment, moving his lips voicelessly. “Truly?” he finally spoke up.

“Truly,” Alayne gladly confirmed.

He made a strangled sound and took her mouth again in a bruising kiss. “My little bird, my… my love, I’ll… I’ll always...” His words quickly became incoherent and he just kissed her again and again and again, panting even more than before.. Alayne had no idea how long it lasted, but when he finally tore himself away from her, he laid himself alongside her. “I need… a moment… moment... to calm...” Sandor wrapped his arm around her and closed his eyes. Alayne watched his pained expression for a while. Clegane was a very odd man, but he was hers. She waited and waited for him to say something, but then she got a little impatient and touched his cheek again. He then finally opened his eyes.“We’ll do it today, right?” his voice was even hoarser than usual. “We’ll marry today.”

“Today?" Alayne gasped. "But the king has died!”

“It doesn’t matter to septons, if you pay enough. Or is there someone you’d like to invite to the wedding?”

“Well, I should ask my father...”

“But he’s in King’s Landing, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Alayne confirmed.

“Good, I’ll pay him whatever he wants. We can do it today. He’ll come. Who else? What do you want, little bird?” he ask softly.

Alayne blushed, thinking about her own wedding. Her wedding! Up until this day she had thought she’d never have one, but now, now it seemed like an exciting prospect. The Seven had shown her what they wanted and Septa Odila had explained it to her right before Sandor miraculously showed up. It were too many surprises for a coincidence. The gods clearly wanted this union. And Sandor was so much more than what the septa had described as a suitable partner for Alayne. “I’d rather make it small, without friends,” Alayne admitted. “It would be nice if I could tell Lord Stark, too, but… that’s not possible,” she noted with sadness.

“Ned Stark?” Sandor scowled, raising his head immediately. “Why?” He seemed annoyed. Was he annoyed?

“Well...” Alayne blushed. She shouldn’t have mentioned Ned Stark, it was stupid. She always got too comfortable around Sandor, saying too much. Sandor made her feel different, he made her feel like a northerner, like a lady… She had to control herself better.

Sandor’s face was now twisted in fury. Why was he angry again? “No, you’re mine,” he growled. “Mine,” he kissed her, his arm tightening around her possessively. “You don’t want him, do you? Tell me the truth, little bird, do you prefer him over me?”

She swallowed. Sandor was right, Alayne had nothing to do with Ned Stark, she should stop longing for a reunion. It was completely unreasonable of her and it was very very shameful. The Seven had sent her a man to marry, a wise man who’d immediately seen her mistake.

“Of course not, Sandor. I just thought… Please forgive me,” she wrapped her arms around him. “I want only you to be there.”

“You do?” he looked deep into her eyes. “You do, right?”

“I do,” she smiled.

The answer seemed to satisfy him and he started kissing her again. When they finally both calmed down, Sandor rested his head on Alayne’s chest and she lovingly stroked his hair. She was quite proud that such a fierce man could long for her affection. It was even more astounding that nobody had ever given it to him before. Sandor wasn’t a bad man, life had been too cruel to him and turned him into the Hound. But he’d come so far in his journey, he’d done so much to be a better man. They had both sinned terribly, but they could support each other now, be better together. The Seven knew what they were doing. Sandor made a soft, content sound that made Alayne giggle. Sandor would take her away, they’d go directly to Petyr and ask him for his blessing. And then they’d marry. Alayne planted a soft kiss into the man’s hair. Sandor had been horribly hurt in his life, but she’d give him a loving family now. She’d keep him. She’d keep him safe.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I have to split a chapter in two. I really have no idea why my chapters keep getting longer and longer, but I'm sure it's not my fault at all.

Alayne focused her eyes on the trees, which the carriage was passing. The trees were real, so it was all real, wasn’t it? So much had changed within two short hours, she still couldn’t quite believe it. She was not going to be a septa, she was not going to be Petyr’s wife, either. She was free now. Was Alayne Stone allowed to be free? She could become Sandor’s wife, she could be Lady Clegane instead. Oddly enough, Lady Clegane already seemed to be more real than Alayne Stone ever had. She could be Sandor’s wife. She could be something real, something that mattered, something that was loved on its own. 

They’d done it. Well, Sandor had done it, he was brilliant like that. He had posed as Alayne’s coachman, he wore a hood obscuring his face and played his role so well nobody even stopped to question him. He had probably bought off the real coachman and there were so many people working for Petyr, nobody paid any attention to Sandor, not even Septa Odila. Alayne had played it well, too, hadn’t she? She’d acted as if everybody was supposed to know the coachman. Was it a sin? Their little act had saved Sandor’s life, so it couldn’t have been a sin. Petyr’s guards wouldn’t have spared the intruder, Alayne was sure of it. 

Alayne was so very proud of Sandor. He’d got into the estate without bloodshed and he got out as well. It was like something out of a song. Alayne’s betrothed was very clever, he could now even make plans that didn’t include killing. When he’d been sick, every single one of Sandor’s feverish plans included someone dying. Now he was a changed man, a better man. And it was all thanks to Alayne’s influence on him. Alayne smiled proudly. It was incredible how much Sandor had grown the short period of time they’d known each other. In their marriage Alayne and Sandor would always support each other in their quest for betterment. Just like septas and septons. Well, almost. The Seven knew what they were doing and they’d chosen wisely for Alayne. 

Alayne fidgeted at the thought of her impending wedding. Every bride was supposed to look her best on her wedding day and Alayne wasn’t looking even remotely well. She’d spent too much time crying, she hadn’t slept well or eaten anything, so she now had both, the puffy eyes and the sunken cheeks. She didn’t like the dress she was wearing, either. It was Petyr’s favourite, but it was too tight on her and it wasn’t even very fashionable. The style had been out of fashion for two decades and it made Alayne look more like a ghost of Catelyn Stark than a young bride. Petyr had even called her Cat when he saw her in the dress for the first time. Alayne shivered at the memory. She didn’t want to be wearing such dress at her wedding.

And then there was the important issue of Alayne’s smallclothes. Sandor would get to see her smallclothes soon, wouldn’t he? Alayne blushed. She was wearing her most favourite smallclothes, because it was so very comfortable. But it was also decidedly not pretty. Sandor thought her beautiful, Alayne didn’t want him to change his mind because of her smallclothes. It was a bride’s duty to be pleasing to her man’s eye and yet Alayne hadn’t prepared herself at all. She’d been bad again. She bit her lip and glanced towards her luggage. She didn’t know how much time she had, perhaps this was the only opportunity she had to change. They were in the city centre, where there were too many people and Sandor had to halt the carriage all the time. Alayne sometimes even heard him shout at people in front of them. Alayne only hoped Sandor’s huge horse hadn’t taken out his anger on anyone. 

They would soon arrive to Petyr’s house and Alayne wouldn’t get another chance to make herself ready. It was now or never. Alayne took a deep breath and hastily started to change. She’d be wearing her best small clothes on her special day and Sandor would still consider her beautiful. But what about the stays, why was she always wearing her old comfortable stays instead of those pretty ones? She couldn’t change those, unfortunately. Alayne huffed in frustration and tried to at least rearrange her dress, loosen it a little. She took an elegant small knife out of her purse and cut through a few stitches, removing two darts at her bust. Better, much better. At least her breasts weren’t so squashed any more and she could actually breathe. Alayne wanted to make some more strategic cuts, but the carriage halted again. This time the door opened, surprising Alayne during her ministrations.

“Little bird, we’re...” Sandor started, before freezing, his eyes glued to the knife in Alayne’s hand. “What are you doing?” he rasped threateningly.

“Nothing?” Alayne peeped with a voice full of guilt. She could feel the blush all the way to her toes. She wanted Sandor to be at awe with her looks, not be disturbed by her beautifying actions. 

Sandor grabbed the knife out of her hand. “Stop it,” he told her harshly and quickly gathered her in his arms, lifting her effortlessly out of the carriage. They were nowhere near Petyr’s house. In fact, Alayne didn’t even recognize the street. Sandor carried her towards a sturdy grey house with tall wooden doors. The building wasn’t exactly pretty, but it looked… reliable. Resilient. It looked like a house Sandor would choose. Sandor opened the door confidently and immediately sat Alayne down onto a tall desk.

“And now,” he said, panting again like a raging bull. “Now you’ll tell me everything. What’s wrong? What are you afraid of, Alayne?” he cupped her face in his huge palms.

“Nothing, Sandor, nothing is wrong.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he snarled. “What’s happened to you? Little bird, you can tell me anything, you can have whatever you need, a maester, moontea, anything, you just need to tell me.”

“Why would I need moontea?” Alayne blinked in surprise. She had wanted to be a septa, it was true, and she had not expected to ever have any children. But now that she was to be married, she didn’t like the idea of drinking moontea at all. “Do you not want us to have children when we are married, my lord?”

“Well,” he swallowed. “Of course I want children, I just... Seven hells, Alayne, I don’t know what’s happened to you, I just want you to be alright now. I don’t want you to be hurting.”

“But I’m not! I feel safe with you, Sandor.”

“Clearly not enough,” he grumbled. “What is it then? Is it your father? We don’t have to go there, little bird, if you don’t want to see him ever again, it can be easily arranged.”

“No, no, I’m not afraid of my father!”

His face twisted in anger again. As if his mood swings weren’t scary enough, Sandor’S fingers were now digging into her shoulder painfully. “You’re lying, girl, don’t think I didn’t notice!”

Alayne flinched. She wasn’t lying, was she? Lying was a sin. Distrusting one’s father was an even greater sin. She wasn’t lying, she couldn’t be. “We need father’s blessing for the wedding.”

“No, we don’t. We need only each other, little bird, nothing else. You don’t even need me. Just look at this house, do you like it?”

“I do, my lord, it’s very nice,” she replied politely. 

“And defensible,” Sandor nodded. “Not like all those fancy mansions with big windows. Nobody can defend those, only a fool would buy that. But you are safe here, little bird. Nobody even knows about this place. It’s your house now.”

Alayne looked up in surprise. “I don’t understand.”

Sandor’s mouth twitched. “You don’t have to marry me, if you don’t want to,” he brushed a stray hair away from her face. “You’ll be fine either way. You can always stay here, safe and protected. You’ll have everything you need.”

“Oh,” Alayne finally understood. Sandor hadn’t changed his mind, he was only trying to give her a way out. She smiled, touched by his gesture. “That’s very sweet of you, Sandor, but I would rather be married to you.”

“You would?”

She nodded, stroking his cheek gently. He leaned into her touch. “Today?” he asked, his voice full of hope again.

“Yes, Sandor, I have already given you my word.”

“But you’re free now and you choose me anyway, right?” The man’s burnt lips curved into a genuine smile. Elation mingled with disbelief on his face and when his lips touched hers, she could almost sense the happiness pouring from him. “You want me. You do, don’t you?” he murmured. “You don’t want a pretty lord, you want me.”

She run her hand through his hair. She liked the surprising softness of it as well as the way Sandor reacted to her touch. “I do, Sandor, I want to give you family,” she whispered to him, making the huge man shiver. “We’ll clean the name of the House Clegane together, won’t we?” she kissed the ruin that was his ear. “Our children will be so proud to have your name.”

Sandor nodded. “My little bird,” he kissed her eagerly, devouring her mouth. “I’m no Stark, Alayne, but you see, our children will have plenty, too,” he assured her, panting. “They’ll have houses like this and horses and dresses, everything.”

“We don’t need that much, Sandor,” Alayne assured him, hoping he’d talk more about love. “You said it yourself, we only need each other.”

“But you will have everything, you’ll see. I’m a lord now, too, have I told you that? You’ll live in a castle. There are beautiful mountains all around it and forests. And I have enough coin to rebuild the Clegane Keep and make our lands really nice. And… and… And you’ll make it look just according to your taste and we’ll invite singers and… You’ll want for nothing, little bird, I swear. You’ll have a better life than any highborn lady.”

Why was he talking about the Starks again? Alayne didn’t have much time to think about it, as Sandor’s kisses grew demanding and his hands started wandering, gliding over her body. She perhaps didn’t mind the size difference between them so much. Sandor’s caresses spoke of love, not danger. Alayne still couldn’t decide what it was about him that made her react so differently than to Petyr. The Seven, probably. The Seven must have made it different.

“You won’t try to do anything foolish again, will you, little bird?” Sandor asked pleadingly. “You have to be safe.”

“I am safe, Sandor.”

“And before? Why did you…” he swallowed. “Why the knife?”

“I… I was only admiring it, my lord. It was a gift from Gislin.”

Sandor scowled some more, but remained silent, shaking his head. He knew she was lying, but this time he thankfully didn’t confront her about it. “Come, little bird, let me show you the house,” he rasped, taking her hand. Alayne gladly followed him. Sandor was obviously very proud about his decision to invest his gold. He explained to Alayne he wanted to be different that the king and lords who unwisely wasted great fortunes. He wanted to invest in various different things, so that he could multiply his gold without ever risking losing everything. He was oddly obsessed with giving Alayne the same luxury as the Starks enjoyed. She didn’t like hearing about it. Alayne wanted Sandor to speak to her about love, about his feelings and their future family. She wanted him to kiss her and tell her she was beautiful. She didn’t want to hear about money, Petyr spoke about that frequently enough.

Alayne obediently admired each room Sandor showed her. Only when she saw a very large bed, she paused for a moment, suddenly wondering whether it had been wise to visit the house at all. Was this where they would spend their wedding night? Alayne remembered Sandor’s naked body, imagined it above her. He looked like such a brute, a mere thought of sharing bed with him should have scared her, but it was also oddly thrilling. Was it because she was wicked or because the gods wanted the union? She blushed and turned around only to collide with Sandor’s muscled chest. It was like bumping into a rock, the impact didn’t even make him stumble. “Oh. Forgive me, my lord,” she apologized immediately. Sandor always stood too close to her, but it kept catching her by surprise anyway.

He smirked and caged her in his arms again, holding her flush to his body. “Have you noticed something?”

She had certainly noticed how large the bed was. An entire family could sleep there. But it wasn’t proper to notice such things, so Alayne looked down, not knowing what to say.

“If you don’t like the dress, we can still get another one, little bird, don’t worry,” Sandor murmured.

Oh. The dress. She hadn’t noticed it before, how could she have not noticed? Sandor had bought her a beautiful wedding dress, decorated with silver applications reminding her of the Stark grey. And yellow flowers that no doubt reminded Sandor of the Clegane sigil and his mother’s favourite dress. He’d spoken about his mother so many times Alayne could almost draw her portrait now. The dress was so beautiful a highborn lady, or a queen could easily wear it, and yet it was simple enough that it wouldn’t draw attention away from the girl’s own looks. It was a perfect wedding dress for Alayne. Actually no, it was a perfect wedding dress for Sansa Stark. A shiver went down Alayne’s spine.

“You can have any dress you want, little bird,” Sandor was still speaking.

“I want this one,” she said quietly. 

He snorted. “You don’t have to say that, I know I’m not good with these things.”

“But you are, Sandor, I love everything you’ve given me. But you’re too generous, the dress is fit for a lady, not a common bastard.”

He looked deep into her eyes and she had an unnerving feeling that he could read her every thought. But he relaxed and smiled again. “That’s good, given that you’re my sweet lady. Go on,” he gently pushed her into the room. “Try it on.”

When he closed the door, Alayne looked around the room again. On which side of the bed would she be sleeping? She tentatively touched the bedding, but she quickly stopped herself. She was misbehaving again. She turned her attention back to the dress and started to change. It was exciting to be rid of the blue dress, as the new dress was a much better fit. And it was from Sandor. It always surprised Alayne how well Sandor knew her body. When she opened the door and Sandor glanced at her, she’d swear she could see tears in his eyes. He’d shaved while she was dressing and he’d changed, too. He didn’t even seem so ugly to her any more, he was just very manly. His scars were manly, too, Alayne decided.

“Do you like it?” he asked, his voice creaking.

“Very much,” Alayne blushed.

“You look...” he started and Alayne smiled, expecting a lovely compliment. “Seven hells,” Sandor swore instead and hugged her again, kissing her fiercely.

He was kissing her, rambling incoherently. She didn’t really understand most of his words, but at least she learnt that Clegane had bought the dress two weeks before. That was certainly surprising. Sandor usually wasn’t so patient and waiting didn’t seem to be his great strength. Even now he again dragged her to the carriage as quickly as possible and rushed the horses towards the street where Petyr lived. 

Before Alayne could even get nervous, they arrived to her father’s house. Alayne knew her father wouldn’t approve of Sandor at first, but she was determined to prove to him it was the will of the Seven. Hadn’t they given her a sign? Septa Odila had brought up the idea of a marriage for the first time and immediately Sandor appeared proposing to her. Alayne was absolutely certain it was what the gods had intended for her. Petyr was a very obedient servant of the Seven, he would understand it better than anyone else.

“That’s the house, Sandor,” she showed him.

“Here? Your father lives next to the Littlefinger’s place?” Sandor sounded surprised. “Never mind, nobody will hurt you here, little bird,” he kissed her hand. “You’re safe with me.”

“Sandor, I… I would prefer to speak with my father alone if you don’t mind.”

Sandor’s mouth twitched again. “I do mind. I’m not leaving you without protection again, little bird, much less in this bloody street.”

“But Sandor, this is all so unexpected for my father, he deserves a moment to process everything.”

Sandor huffed in annoyance. “Alright, but I’m not letting you out of my sight. I’ll just keep my distance.”

Alayne could see it was already more of a concession than he’d been prepared to make, so she didn’t push the matter further. “Thank you, Sandor,” she kissed him and stepped out of the carriage.

Her hands were trembling when the door opened, but she managed to keep her voice steady. “Seven blessings, Wendelin,” she told the old steward. “I’d like to talk to my father, if I may.”

“Come in, child,” he told her instead of greeting. “Your father is in the Red Keep now, but he’ll return at night. You are to stay here for now.”

Alayne shook her head. “No, thank you, Wendelin, I only need to talk to him. I’ll come back tomorrow, then.”

The old man frowned. “That’s not an option, child, your father is expecting you to stay here.”

“Oh, no, he didn’t know I was supposed to come,” Alayne smiled anxiously. “My plans have changed unexpectedly because of the king’s death.”

“That’s not important. I have my orders and you are to sleep here tonight. Or do you want to disobey your father?”

“No, father didn’t know I would come, so he couldn’t have had any opinion about it,” Alayne reasoned.

“Enough,” the man snapped. “I’m telling you you are staying here. Come inside.”

“No.”

“I’m telling you...” he grabbed her hand forcefully.

“Don’t!” Sandor’s voice boomed through the street. “Don’t even try.” It took him just a few long steps to be at the door by Alayne’s side. The steward’s mouth fell open and he quickly retracted his hand. “The lady has made herself clear,” Sandor rasped, his hand on the sword pommel. “She’ll come back tomorrow, did you not hear her?”

“I did. But… but this is a misunderstanding, ser. Alayne is my master’s daughter, he gave me clear orders!”

“The lady is my bride and she’s telling you she’ll come back tomorrow,” Sandor corrected the man in a low voice. “You’ll tell that to your master. Is that a clear enough order?”

The old man swallowed, nodding fearfully. “It is.”

Sandor gazed at the poor steward with so much hate it would make the fiercest warrior tremble in fear. Sandor looked as if he wanted to kill the man, tear him apart, but Sandor wasn’t the Hound anymore, he couldn’t behave like that. Alayne couldn’t bear seeing Sandor in such rage, but she let him lead her away nonetheless.

“Sandor, that was unnecessary!” she scolded him.

“Unnecessary? Next time somebody touches you like that, I’ll cut his arm off.”

“Sandor!”

“Both arms then. And a cock. Who in the seven hells does he think he is, treating his master’s daughter like this?” Sandor walked with one hand on the small of Alayne’s back, the other on his sword. His face was twisted with anger and he kept shooting hateful glances to anyone passing them, completely scaring away a frail old woman.

“Sandor, calm down!”

“No, I won’t!” he fumed. “Little bird, that man knew you’d come today, even though you did not plan on it. How is it possible? What was supposed to happen today, what are you not telling me?”

“I’m not...”

“Since when do stewards carry daggers under their clothes? And why the fuck did that bloody bugger think it’s acceptable to drag you into the house and imprison you there?”

“He didn’t want to imprison me, he only wanted to protect me. I can’t walk alone in these streets, you always say the same thing.”

“But I don’t lock you up in eerie houses all over King’s Landing!” Sandor spat.

“Sandor, you are overreacting!” Alayne admonished him.

“Am I? Am I really?” he stopped in his tracks and turned to her, a murderous gleam in his eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on, little bird, and I don’t know what you’re hiding,” he snarled. “But I do know when you’re lying to me, I do know you’re terrified of something and I sure as seven hells know that you’re trusting the wrong people! Next time somebody treats you like this, I don’t care if it’s the High Septon’s mother, I’ll kill them. And I’ll bloody enjoy it!”

“Sandor, how can you be so hateful?” Alayne gasped, horrified by such words.

“I’m honest, it’s the world that’s hateful. I’ve told you already. Those who fill your head with pretty words are all liars, Alayne, they’re clearly hurting you and the sooner you see it, the better.”

“That’s not true, Sandor, you can’t judge everybody just because they are different than you!”

“No, I’m judging them for their actions towards you! You don’t want to tell me what’s wrong, little bird, fine,” he growled. “But I know I almost lost you today...” his voice broke and Sandor balled his fist, taking a shaky breath. “I almost lost you and I won’t risk anything like that happening ever again. Say what you want, but that man there wanted to keep you in the house against your will.”

“Because he thought it was for my own good!”

“Seven hells, how can you...”

“Alayne!” a cheerful voice interrupted him. Manny. Manny was there, rushing to her, hugging her immediately. “Alayne!”

Manny. Manny wasn’t injured. Manny wasn’t dead. “Manny! How… you are alive!”

“Of course he’s alive, he’s my squire now,” Sandor grumbled. “But he’s not supposed to be here. What did I tell you, boy?”

“Alayne,” the boy smiled dreamily.

Sandor’s scowl diminished and the man pressed Alayne to himself with a rather self-satisfied smirk. “I told you we’d find her, right?” he asked the boy. “Alayne is my bride, Manny,” Sandor announced loudly, planting a kiss at the top of Alayne’s head, looking around with immeasurable pride. “We’ll be getting married as soon as we talk to her father.”

Alayne wanted to be angry at the man for his rude behaviour, but Sandor’s expression was too adorable for that. He was looking at her with so much affection in his eyes, she couldn’t even remember why she’d been angry with him in the first place. Sandor was just trying to keep her safe. The Seven had prevented her from becoming a septa and now they prevented her from speaking to her father. The gods had their ways. When she’d thought she had lost everyone, the gods had brought Sandor and Manny back to her life. And the last time Petyr had spoken to her, he told Alayne she wasn’t a child any more and she needed to finally start behaving like a woman grow. Alayne’s dear septa kept repeating it, too. This couldn’t have been a coincidence, it was a gods’ sign. Septa Odila was right, Alayne had to pay better attention to such things. Alayne needed to start making decisions on her own. Alayne glanced back to the house, where she could still see Wendelin’s shadow in the window, and then she looked up again. The Seven obviously didn’t want her to speak to her father before her wedding. And who was Alayne to disobey them? 

“That’s not necessary, Sandor.”

“What?” the man’s brows furrowed and there was a sudden panic in his eyes.

“We can tell my father tomorrow,” Alayne clarified. “I’m only a bastard after all and I... I don’t want to wait,” she confessed quietly.

Sandor’s mouth twitched. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to regret it, little bird. Who will walk you down if your father isn’t there?”

“Manny will. He’s the best for it anyway,” Alayne smiled. “Aren’t you?” she asked her friend.

“Alayne,” the big boy nodded enthusiastically. 

Sandor cupped her cheek. “Is it truly what you want, little bird?”

“It is,” she said, surprised by the relief she felt all of the sudden. She’d explain everything to Petyr later, when there was no way of annulling her marriage. The Seven wanted it that way. And oddly enough, Alayne probably preferred it, too. The shadow in the window disappeared and Alayne allowed Sandor to kiss her again. “Let’s go, Sandor,” she slid her hand into his. “Let’s get married now.”


	13. Chapter 13

It was better than her dreams, no songs had ever been sung about anything more beautiful than Alayne’s wedding. The small sept was in a walking distance from Sandor’s new house, and although it was a modest place, it was adorned with the most beautiful carvings in wood that reminded Alayne of the North. The singer had a voice so heavenly, the hymn sounded sounded like a blessing from the Seven themselves. The sept glittered with soft light of hundreds candles instead of torches and there in the centre of it all was Sandor, looking excitingly scary as usual. But today his face was completely transformed with a radiating smile. He looked young, youngest she’d ever seen him. He looked like a young, sweet boy, whose greatest, impossible dream had just come true. And perhaps that’s who he was.

The septon obviously didn’t think the same. He’d accepted the payment Sandor offered him, but he was still observing the man warily. Sandor had been the prince’s sworn shield and now even a lord, the septon should have truly had more trust in him. Instead he had already asked Alayne three times whether she was sure she wanted this marriage and he’d disregarded her answers each time. He was now watching Sandor as if he expected him to murder Alayne right there in the sept.

The sight of her betrothed standing at the altar made Alayne’s heart beat a little faster. There, at the house of the Seven, he looked like the Warrior incarnated. When Alayne made the last step to the altar, her betrothed smiled at her sheepishly and briefly touched her back in a reassuring gesture. But to Alayne’s surprise he retracted his hand just as fast and run it down his thigh. The septon’s speech was long and inspiring, the prayers even longer and they touched Alayne’s heart, and yet they did nothing to soothe Sandor’s troubled soul, quite the contrary. Sandor kept swallowing constantly, biting his lower lip, he scowled and glared at the septon and whenever Alayne caught him staring at her, he quickly averted his eyes with a guilty look on his face. Alayne wanted to kiss him, calm him down. She was good at it, she was always good at comforting him. The ceremony was so wonderful, Alayne wanted Sandor to enjoy it, too, at least in this magical moment he didn’t need to worry about something as usual. 

When the prayers ended, Manny fumbled with the clasp of her maiden’s cloak for a moment. It did take a while, but he succeeded and finally removed the cloak, smiling expectantly. Sandor roughly pushed the boy aside and took his place instead. The bride’s cloak he held was huge and heavy, more suited for a winter wedding, but the intricate embroidery gave it a soft touch. Alayne knew his mother had made the cloak for Sandor when he was only a babe and the girl was excited to finally see it. The three Clegane dogs were really an amazing sigil. Dogs were just like wolves, only gentler and better-mannered. Arya Stark had always had the spirit of a true wolf, but Alayne was perhaps more suited for the Cleganes. She already felt a strong connection to Sandor’s family. His grandparents must have been wonderful people and Alayne would make sure to continue in their traditions. The new couple would bring happiness and prosperity back to Clegane lands.

Sandor stood behind Alayne tall and strong, sweeping the cloak of his protection over her shoulders. He didn’t move for a moment, but he was breathing heavily into Alayne’s ear and his hands were trembling. Was he crying? “I’ll keep you safe, little bird,” he whispered so quietly, she wasn’t even sure whether his words were intended for her ears. “Nothing is more important than keeping you safe and happy,” he tenderly kissed her cheek as he leaned forward to fasten the clasp and he returned to his place. 

Alayne turned to face him, craning her neck to look up at the huge man. “With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband,” she said.

Sandor’s mouth twitched and he took a shaky breath. “With this kiss I pledge my love,” he replied hoarsely, bending down to bring his face to hers, “and take you for my lady and wife.” 

Sandor swallowed once more and pressed his lips to hers. There was definitely wetness on his face. And Sandor wasn’t moving, why wasn’t he moving? Alayne tried to take a step back, but Sandor immediately wrapped his arms around and pressed her to himself. “My little bird,” he groaned longingly.

The septon cleared his throat, but Sandor didn’ let go of her even then, he only turned his head to the man. “Is it done?”

The septon sighed. “Here in the sight of gods and men,” he said, “I do solemnly proclaim Sandor of House Clegane and Alayne Stone to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.” 

“My wife,” Sandor beamed. “My little bird.”

“And you’re my lord husband,” Alayne smiled, wondering whether he’d still hate to hear her use his new title.

If his passionate kisses were any indication, he didn’t mind at all. 

“Sandor, he’s looking at us!” Alayne wriggled in his eager embrace.

“Let him look,” Sandor drew her into his chest again. “You’re mine now, little bird. You’re the kindest, most beautiful person in this bloody world and you’re mine,” he repeated in disbelief. “All mine.”

“Sandor, we are… we are not alone!” Alayne managed to say between kisses.

The septon wasn’t the only one looking, there was also Manny with his eyes wide open in surprise. But after a moment he started to laugh and rushed to embrace the new couple himself. He managed to startle even Alayne’s fierce husband.

“Seven hells, boy, what are you doing?”

Manny giggled, making sounds that were words of his own creation. “Clegane!” was the only distinguishable word, loud and clear.

“You know my name, great, now learn not to touch my wife’s behind,” Sandor growled, snatching Manny’s hand away from Alayne. Sandor’s voice was rough, but his eyes were twinkling and Manny didn’t seem to be scared of the huge lord at all.

“Sandor,” Alayne admonished him anyway and gladly hugged Manny, who was obviously delighted. “We’re both Cleganes now.”

Sandor couldn’t help but grin, too. “We are, aren’t we?” he engulfed Alayne in a passionate embrace as soon as the boy let go of her. “You’re my little lady Clegane,” he whispered before pressing gentle butterfly kisses in her hair. They were standing in the centre of the sept, the septon watching them, but Sandor wasn’t paying any attention to his surrounding. Besides, he was once again forgetting how strong he was. As he got a bit carried away, his embrace made Alayne feel as if she was being crushed by a huge, hungry bear. And feeling his teeth rake down her throat wasn’t particularly helping to dispel this impression.

“Sandor...” Alayne pulled away, blushing profusely at the sight of the disapproving septon. Her new husband stole another kiss from her anyway. “Sandor, where will we…” she managed to say between kisses. “Where will we have our meal?” she finally asked, hoping to stop their distasteful display.

It worked, because Sandor stopped kissing her, but he also suddenly looked alarmed. “Meal?” He repeated. “You want a feast?”

“Well, not a feast, I thought...” With all the anxiousness gone, Alayne suddenly felt a bit hungry. She hadn’t eaten all day after all. “We could have a lunch, perhaps?”

“Of course, well…” Sandor frowned. “Anything you want, little bird. But may be we could return to our house and…” Sandor smiled, biting his lip. “Well...” he brushed his fingers through her hair awkwardly. “Manny will go get us a dinner and we can all eat together later.”

Alayne pursed her lips in disagreement. “We can’t treat him like that, Sandor!”

“Alayne, he’s my squire. I’m paying him for this.”

“But what if he gets lost?”

“He won’t. He’s been able to do everything much better than any squire I had before,” Sandor brushed her off. “Besides, he already knows the way,” he resumed pressing kisses along the base of her neck. “Alayne,” he rasped longingly. “Just think of it, we’re married,” his smile deepened and broadened. His usual scowl was nowhere to be seen, but there was something feral in his eyes. “We’re truly married. You’re mine now and I’m yours, little bird. Yours!” his kisses became more insistent. The septon was still there, still silent, and yet his expression spoke louder than words. People probably never dared to oppose such a fierce man as Alayne’s husband, but that only meant the new couple ought to be particularly well-mannered, not the opposite.

“We should be going, Sandor.”

“Yes, yes. You have nothing to be afraid of, my love,” Sandor’s mumbling got coherent again. But he wasn’t listening to Alayne at all. For a man who used to call himself a dog, Sandor sure did like to ignore Alayne’s suggestions. Not that any dog had ever obeyed Alayne, she wasn’t really all that good at training animals. Actually, come to think of it, all dogs always nuzzled up against her without ever following her orders. It was getting suspicious.

“It’ll be nothing like with other men, I swear,” Sandor cupped her face in both his hands, looking deep into her eyes. “Whenever anything will be uncomfortable for you, you’ll just tell me and I’ll stop immediately. You’re safe with me,” he kissed her before touching his forehead to hers, sharing breath with her. “You know that, right?”

“I do, Sandor.”

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes shining with a terrifying passion “Seven hells, how can anybody be so beautiful?” he rasped. His thumb was tenderly stroking over her skin as if she was a jewel of the highest value. He wasn’t really opening his mouth and his voice was so quiet, it was as if Alayne was hearing his thoughts. There was something very unnerving about Alayne’s husband intense presence. 

“I’ll make you happy, little bird, you’ll see. All that matters from now on is what you like, what you yourself want,” he kept repeating.

“I want to go, Sandor,” Alayne stated firmly.

“What?” the man stopped, his voice full of surprise.

“I don’t think we should be staying in the sept for so long,” Alayne pointed out gently.

“Oh.” Sandor raised his head, looking around as if he’d just realized that he was still standing in the sept. “Yes, yes, we should go,” he announced. Sandor curtly nodded at the septon and hastily scooped Alayne up into his arms. Even when he was walking, Sandor still stole a kiss from his new wife.

“Sandor, we can’t act like that!” Alane protested half-heartedly. 

“We can’t?” he smirked.

“No, you have to show at least some restraint!”

Sandor chuckled. “I’m showing more restraint right now than ever in my life, little bird,” he said in a husky voice.

Alayne smiled, leaning her head against her husband’s strong chest. She was enjoying the closeness a bit too much, but she was a well-mannered lady and she couldn’t possibly admit it. “No, you’re not,” she disagreed softly.

He laughed, the sound that used to remind Alayne of a dog’s bark now reverberated through her body like the sweetest music. He’d laugh a lot in their marriage, she decided, his eyes would always shine with endless joy. 

Alayne wanted to think a bit more about her perfect marriage, but when Sandor opened the heavy door the new couple was met with an unexpected commotion. The road to the sept was blocked, there was an overthrown carriage and people fighting in the street for no apparent reason. The swords were drawn, axes raised and the wall was splattered with blood. Alayne saw a man in a white cloak raise a sword for another deadly blow… she closed her eyes and buried her face in Sandor’s jerkin before she could see some more. The thuds and screams of terror chilled her to the marrow of her bones. Sandor’s arm tightened around her, she knew she was safe with him. But what was happening? Did Sandor know what was happening?

“Do you know that man?” she whispered.

“More of a toad than a man,” Sandor grunted. “Trant, that white-cloaked piece of shit has nothing to do in this part of the city.”

Alayne had already heard that name from Sandor enough times to know he didn’t hold the knight in the highest regard. 

“What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it,” Sandor narrowed his eyes. “With the king’s death and Joffrey on the throne... anything is possible. I have no idea who lives in these houses. Very rich and important buggers, no doubt. And no friends of the Lannisters, it seems.”

Sandor looked once more around the street, huffed in frustration and turned around. “We have to get out of the city as soon as possible, little bird. Nothing pretty will come out of this.”

“But… why are we going back to sept?” Alayne was confused.

“It’s not safe for you out there.”

“And you?” Alayne asked anxiously. 

The septon had already left and Sandor pushed Manny and Alayne into a small room, where the septon’s robes were hanging. The three of them could barely fit into the small space, there were no windows, nothing.

“You two stay here. There is nothing to be afraid of, my love, I’ll be back as soon as possible, I just need to make sure you’ll be safe,” Sandor pressed a dagger into her hand. “Don’t go out, don’t answer to anyone,” he kissed her, stroked her hair and then he was gone. Alayne glanced after him, seeing Sandor draw his sword. Did he mean to join the fight? Before Alayne asked him anything, she was suddenly alone in the dark room with Manny, who seemed utterly confused.

“Alayne?”

“Don’t worry, Manny, Sandor will be back in a moment,” she assured him. This wasn’t how she’d imagined her first moments in a marriage. Sandor was a good swordsman, of that she had no doubt, but he was also very emotional on this special day, and he was horribly exhausted after searching for her. She shouldn’t have let him get involved in the incident, she should have convinced him to stay.

“Alayne?” she heard a muffled cry emanating from the nave of the sept. “Alayne, please help!”

Alayne swallowed, surprised to hear the familiar voice in this strange place. “Stay here,” she ordered to Manny and left him in a hurry to help the man in need. She held the dagger in her hand. “Father? Father what’s happening?” Alayne looked around the sept, searching for any signs of life. “Father, are you hurt?” 

Nobody answered her. The sept was quiet, safe for the dull sounds of the fight from outside. Had Alayne just been imagining it? Her father couldn’t have known she was there, and yet... Alayne heard the soft rustling of fabric. She turned around. “Fath...”

Before Alayne could finish, a soaked cloth was slapped over her mouth. Alayne tried to scream, but she could hardly breathe. She raised her dagger. She… her head was spinning and she didn’t know where the dagger was, where was her hand, how many hands she had, how many daggers. She wanted to fight, but the room was spinning so fast and she wanted something, she did, but then it got so dark and even darker. She heard her father’s voice and may be she didn’t. It was too dark. Too dark.

.

Alayne woke up coughing and she squinted her eyes to escape the harsh light. “Sandor?” she felt sick as soon as she opened her mouth. “Sandor?”

“Oh, sweetling, at last,” she heard Petyr’s voice. She tried to focus eyes on the face above her. It was indeed Petyr. But where was Sandor? Alayne's head was pounding and there was unbearable ringing in her ears. Where was Sandor?

“Sandor...” 

“I was so worried about you, Alayne,” Petyr stroked her hair and briefly touched his lips to hers, making her stomach feel even more queasy. “I was searching for you, sweetling, but when I got close, they attacked me. And then they attacked you,” he shook his head. “It took all my men to free us. How are you feeling now?”

“But… who? Who attacked you?” she didn't understand.

“The Lannisters of course,” he said with sadness. “They wanted to get to you, but I’ll never let that happen, Alayne,” Petyr promised. “It has cost me several lives of my men and more money than I can count, but I have succeeded in freeing you again, and that is all that matters. I know how much you regret the trouble you have caused me, so I forgive you.” Petyr smiled at her kindly.

Alayne was perplexed by his words and she felt nauseous. What was happening? Where was Sandor? Sandor would explain it to her, he’d be perhaps harsh, but she could believe his every word, she knew. “Where is my husband?” she asked only one question instead of thousand burning ones.

“Your husband?” Petyr repeated, confusion and hurt lacing his voice. “You are not married, my child.”

“Yes, I am!” Alayne tried to sit up, but her head was spinning too much. “I got married to Sandor Clegane today, father, please, we have to find him!”

“There is no need for that,” Petyr replied coldly. “He’s with the Lannisters, no doubt.”

“But he’s a lord now, he’s left the service.”

Petyr sighed heavily. “Cleganes never leave the Lannister service, sweetling.” He climbed into Alayne’s bed, bringing his face close to hers. “It was all just a ploy, Alayne, don’t you see?” He stroked her hair. “They realized who you were when you were taking care of Clegane. I have warned you many times, haven’t I? Clegane was only acting upon Cersei’s orders.”

“No, that’s not possible, father!”

“You do not believe your father?”

“I do, I do,” Alayne assured Petyr hastily, too afraid of offending him. “I do believe you, but I know Sandor...”

“They call him a Lannister dog, sweetling, because he blindly follows any order the Lannisters give him. Or did you think he's changed himself completely for a bastard girl?”

“I...” Alayne’s lips quivered. “Not for me, he's always had a good heart, he just didn't know how to cope with the world's cruelty. He wants to be a better man now, father, he is one.”

“And why is that? Why would a murderer change after thirty years of killing and raping?”

“He never...” Alayne wanted to correct him, but she stopped herself. “The Seven have spoken to him and warmed his heart, father, I’ve seen the change in him.”

Petyr caressed her cheek with his soft hand. “My sweet naive Alayne. It was all an act, my poor child. Tell me, how has he blinded you? What has he done to shield your gaze?”

“He hasn’t done anything. Father, please believe me, I know who he is!”

Petyr didn’t care about her pleas. “I’ve had septa Odila and one good septon examine your maidenhead,” he told her and Alayne swallowed anxiously at those words. She hated the process too much, even after so many times it was simply too humiliating. “You are still intact, sweetling, but tell me, are you pure as well?”

“You’ve just said septa Odila has confirmed it, father!” Tears flooded Alayne’s eyes. No more inspections, no, Alayne couldn’t bear any more of them.

“She has indeed. But your words indicate otherwise. Clegane has ruined you, hasn’t he? Tell me. Did you let him touch your breasts?” Petyr cupped her breasts, molding them in his palms. “Your sweet spot?”

“What… No!” Alayne protested.

“So what was it then? Sweetling, you know you can’t keep secrets from me.” Anger crossed Petyr’s features and this time the emotion reached his eyes as well. “The Seven forbid such sin. Tell me, Alayne, has he made you use your mouth on him?” 

“What do you mean, father?”

Petyr stared at her for a long moment and Alayne felt as if he was pulling out her every memory and examining it, too. But after a while she glimpsed a relief in his expression. “Do you even realize the value of your maidenhead, Alayne? You are nothing without your purity. How could you ever agree to be alone with a strange man?”

“But Sandor is not strange, father, he’s my husband. I love him!”

Petyr closed his eyes. He obviously misunderstood Sandor’s intentions completely. Sandor had indeed sinned greatly in his life, but now he only wanted to be good and that was all that mattered. Alayne had to make her father understand.

“Oh, my child, the Lannisters… I can’t believe they have managed to fool you like that,” he said, his voice much calmer, anger dissipating. "The Lannisters sent Clegane to lure you into the trap.”

“But why would they do that?”

“For your claim, sweetling. For Sansa Stark’s claim.”

Alayne shivered. “Sansa Stark is dead,” she whispered.

Petyr shook his head. “Not for the Lannisters. The Hound was only following their orders, he always does. Why do you think that white cloaks appeared in front of the sept just as you were leaving it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because of you, sweetling. All those people there died because of you. The Lannisters want the North and they want to use you to help them in that.”

“But they don’t need Sandor for that, they could have simply taken me, surely. Why would Sandor pretend anything?”

“You ask too many questions, sweetling.” 

Petyr was clearly saddened by her improper behaviour, but Alayne had to make him understand anyway. “Father, please believe me, Sandor would never lie to me, I’m certain.”

“Has he told you what he’s done, then?”

“What do you mean?”

Petyr wiped his eyes. “He...” his voice broke with emotion. “Sandor Clegane killed Ned Stark, sweetling."

Alayne stared at Lord Baelish, waiting for him to say something. He had to say something. It couldn’t be true, so something had to happen.

“In all honesty, he isn’t the one to blame for it. The Lannisters gave him the orders and he just obeyed. I told you that. Cleganes do whatever the Lannisters tell them. And they needed Ned Stark out of their way. Because of you.”

“Ned Stark?” Alayne heard herself repeat, even though she didn’t have any control over her body.

“Clegane has cut his head off, sweetling. I tried to save my friend, I did all that was in my power. But it was impossible, it was too late. You weren’t honest with me and there was only so much I could do at that point.”

“Ned Stark?”

“Yes, sweetling," Petyr confirmed, despair creeping into his voice. "He’s dead. They put his head on a spike.”

Cold. It was cold. As cold as death. “Ned Stark?”

“Do not worry, sweetling, Ned was the dearest friend of mine, I won’t leave this murder without punishment. The murderer of your father deserves the most painful death, I’ve already had a poison put into his gloves. As soon as he puts his gloves on to hurt someone again, he’ll sentence himself to death. And the Lannisters will be rid of their loyal dog. You. You will be rid of him, even the memory of him will soon pass.” Petyr kissed her again.

“But why… how...” 

“Do not worry, sweetling. We’ll marry soon. I wasn’t planning on ever getting married again after the decease of my beloved Lysa, but after all you've done it's unfortunately the only way I can protect you and the Starks.”

“He’s dead,” Alayne whispered before weakness came over her again.

Alayne later lay in her bed without opening her eyes. She didn’t want to speak to anyone. What was there to say? Ned Stark was dead. How could she ever trust someone again? Even Sandor had lied to her. She had thought, she had truly believed… She swallowed, fighting back her tears, trying not to give away she was awake. Ned Stark was dead. Alayne had done everything the Seven had asked of her and yet Ned Stark was dead. Why was he dead?

Alayne heard the familiar snoring. Septa Odila had fallen asleep again. And there was nobody else in the room, was there? Alayne opened her eyes. It was dark outside, how much time had passed since her wedding? Another pang hit her in the heart. The wedding… the way Sandor had looked at her. Had it been a lie, too? Had she been so blind and stupid? Alayne glanced at the septa. Septa Odila wouldn’t wake up any time soon, it was an opportunity. Alayne quietly rose from her bed and opened the chest to retrieve her dress. It was a chance. Perhaps the last one she had.

One thing she’d never get now was the opportunity to speak to Ned Stark. How many times had she dreamt about it, how many things had she imagined. And it was all gone, it wasn’t fair. Alayne… What Alayne? The girl stopped to think. Ned Stark was dead. And Alayne Stone existed only to protect Ned Stark from the curse of Sansa Stark. And if Ned Stark was dead… what was the reason for Alayne’s existance? If Ned Stark was dead… so was Alayne Stone.


	14. Chapter 14

Sandor quietly watched the maester tend to the wounded man. Sandor had always hated maesters. He hated their robes, their soft voices and he hated the smell of their healing ointments most of all. The sickening odour had always reminded him of his recovery after he’d got burnt, it reminded him of the day he’d learnt his sweet sister had died. But now al the herbs made him think of Alayne. Which pained him just as much, in a completely different way.

“He’s waking up,” The maester announced in relief. “If the wound doesn’t get inflamed, the worst is now truly behind us.”

“Leave us alone then,” Sandor commanded and took a step to the bed, looking at the pale man in front of him.

“Cersei?” 

Sandor sneered. “Sure. That’s exactly what I look like.”

Jaime slowly opened his eyes. He looked around, clearly disoriented until he got a glance of his own body and it seemed he’d start retching again.

Luckily he didn’t and instead Jaime met Sandor’s eyes. “What are you doing here?” he asked hoarsely. “I was looking for you everywhere, you bastard.”

“I was getting married.”

Jaime snorted. “Congratulations. You couldn’t have chosen a better time, could you?” he groaned in pain. “We truly needed you there, Sandor.”

Sandor shook his head and sat down on a chair next to the bed. It was too small for him and utterly uncomfortable. “You don’t need a dog for a slaughter.”

“Slaughter? Whose slaughter was it? Four of those fuckers banded against me. Four of them! Just look what they’ve done to me,” the Lannister whined.

“I can see that alright. I’ve also seen what you’ve done to them,” Sandor replied coldly.

“It’s my sword hand, don’t you understand? It’s all I have!”

“Well, now you have it in a bucket.” Sandor shrugged. “Should I bring it back so that you can admire it?” He asked, pouring water into a cup.

Jaime glared at him hatefully. “What are you doing here, dog?”

“What do you think?” Sandor slapped a wet rag on the man’s forehead and firmly pressed the cup into his only hand.

Jaime looked down. “And Cersei?”

“She has asked how you are doing.”

“But she won’t come to see me,” Jaime finished quietly.

“Not now.”

“And her children? Myrcella?”

“The only one who wanted to see you was the Imp.” The new king hadn’t released his little uncle from prison yet and Sandor certainly didn’t mind.

Jaime nodded. “And you are the only one who came.” He smiled sadly, a pained grimace twisting his face. He stared into the cup for a moment before emptying it in a few quick gulps. “I don’t care about the leg, or the face, Sandor, but… but...”  
“Your leg should be fine eventually,” Sandor assured him. “The face… well, I’ve had some bigger cuts on my face, too, and surprisingly, nobody ever pays attention to the scars they left.”

“And my arm? Sandor, it’s my sword hand, don’t you understand? It’s my sword hand!” Jaime kept repeating.

Sandor wasn’t sure what to say. He couldn’t imagine losing an arm, losing the ability to fight and protect Alayne. “Maester Pycelle has left enough space bellow the elbows,” he told Jaime at least what he’d learnt. “Even if he has to cut a bit more, it still shouldn’t be above the elbow.” There, Sandor had managed to say something comforting for once.

“And what do I care about my elbow?” Jaime didn’t appreciate Sandor’s effort. “How am I supposed to hold a sword with it? They should have let me die.”

“This day has seen enough death already, don’t you think?”

Jaime snorted and shook his head. “It shouldn’t have been like that, you know?” he sighed, pain filling his voice.

“Like what?” Sandor snickered. “Like starting a war?”

“I didn’t kill Ned Stark, Sandor. We fought the Northerners, I killed several of those bastards, but Ned Stark was not supposed to die. Littlefinger just held a dagger to the man’s throat, so that he could be captured. Alive. We all thought there’d be a trial or something, but Joffrey...”

“Joffrey decided to have Illyn Payne cut the man’s head right then and there in the throne room, I know,” Sandor finished the sentence. “A brave boy. I’m sure you’re proud.”

“It was the Stark’s fault, Sandor, he marched into the throne room, challenging Joffrey’s claim to the throne.”

“And the fault in Joffrey’s claim is the Stark’s fault, I suppose.”

“Seven hells, Sandor, don’t you understand we had to stop him?”

Sandor raised the one eyebrow he had. “There are many other ways how you could have stopped him, Jaime, you know that very well.”

“Since when are you against a good fight?”

“Probably since the moment a slaughter started being called a good fight,” Sandor retorted. “You’ve killed all the Northerners, Jaime. You and your beloved king have killed all the northern guests. Some kings like to do that, they do. It’s a custom it seems,” he smiled a cruel grin. “And I’m sure you love the memory.”

Jaime swallowed. “What about the girl?” he asked in a weak voice.

“A girl? What girl?” 

“His daughter. The girl, Arya. What’s happened to her?”

Sandor shrugged. “We don’t know. I was sent to bring her to the queen, but I didn’t find her in her room.”

“Do you think she ran away?” Jaime asked, almost hopeful.

“The door was locked and only the Kingsguard had the keys.”

“Seven hells,” Jaime swallowed. “What do you think happened to her?”

Sandor shrugged. He hated lies, but he hated what Lannisters did to innocent children even more. Had it only been the steward’s daughter, Jeyne Poole, Sandor wouldn’t mind bringing her to Cersei. The queen didn’t care about a common girl like that, Jeyne would have been safe. But Arya Stark? Arya Stark could never be safe among the Lannisters.

“Do you think...” Jaime didn’t finish. Sandor knew what he was thinking and he didn’t bother calming the Lannister’s guilty conscience. “Have you caught Renly?” Jaime settled on a different question.

“No, he’s gone.”

“He’s smarter than the northerners it seems.”

“He has faster legs, certainly.”

“You know… it really shouldn’t have been like this,” Jaime admitted. “Nothing should have been like this.”

“It shoudn’t?” Sandor snorted. “Our dear King Robert fell from stairs of a brothel, he fell through the roof directly into to the pigsty of a neighbouring house. What a fate. I’m sure it’s fate, isn’t it?”

Jaime eyed him with a raised brow.“Careful, Sandor.”

“I’m always careful. I’m not sure the same can be said of you.”

“I didn’t kill Robert, if that’s what you’re thinking. He was drunk.”

“I’m sure he was,” Sandor agreed. “Well, neither of the two kings you’ve served has been according to you taste. I sure hope you’re satisfied with this one.”

“Joffrey is still young, isn’t he? He will learn one day.”

“He will learn to use his power in full, you know that better than me.”

Jaime shook his head. “There was nothing I could have done, Sandor. That stupid wolf threatened my family, just try to imagine that for a moment. Imagine someone threatened your wife. Are you telling me you wouldn’t want to draw and quarter the man?”

Sandor clenched his teeth, trying to stay calm at the thought of Alayne. Soon. Soon she’d be safe in his arms. She would be safe and loved and Sandor wouldn’t ever leave her side again, not for one moment. Just in a few hours Alayne would be gone from the damn city forever. 

His silence earned him a chuckle from Jaime. “You see. It’s the same.”

“No, it’s not,” Sandor snapped. “My wife’s conscience is clear, I don’t have to be cleaning it with a sword in my hand. And when I was at my weakest, my wife stayed with me day and night, she listened to my ramblings, she nursed me back to life.”

“Lucky you,” Jaime murmured.

“I am.”

Jaime stared at him for a long, heavy moment. “You’ve changed, Sandor.”

“Good. Perhaps that’s why even an ugly fucker like me can sometimes get lucky. And I sure as hell didn’t need a sword hand for that.”

Sandor once again dipped the rag in cold water and put it on Jaime’s forehead. Then the new bloody Lord Clegane stood up, nodded at his stupid friend and marched out of the room. Jaime didn’t utter another word. He just kept staring after him, perplexed.

Sandor had better things to worry about than the bloody mess the Lannisters had made. He’d lost his wife. Again. He kept promising he’d keep her safe, but so far he hadn’t been particularly successful. Why was he always searching for his lady love, was there something wrong with him? Had he already managed to be a bad husband?

Sandor didn’t give a rat’s arse about anything any more, he just needed his wife. He didn’t care what it took to get her to safety, he didn’t care how many men he had to kill to get the answers he needed. While he’d criticized Jaime, he himself didn’t feel one bit guilty about beating confessions out of Littlefinger’s men, he didn’t regret breaking the neck of one of them, he didn’t regret hacking another in two. The fight in front of the sept had been started on Littlefinger’s orders, he knew that now. The house next to the great mansion of Lord Baelish was actually yet another Littlefinger’s private residence, he knew that, too. And Littlefinger had been seen by the sept by more than four witnesses. Every single clue lead to Littlefinger. And this time, Sandor wouldn’t be so lenient. Everything was ready, the sellswords had their orders. All that was left to do now was to storm Littlefinger’s houses. And Sandor would make sure Littlefinger wouldn’t come out alive out of this.

Sandor strode angrily into his room and started quickly changing into his armour. Sandor was now completely sure that it had been Littlefinger who’d been behind all of Alayne’s misfortunes. It was Littlefinger who’d had Gislin killed, who’d abused Alayne, raped her. He’d almost driven her to suicide. And now was the time for Sandor to seek justice. Sandor would cut off Littlefinger’s balls and feed them to him and then he’d gut Littlefinger and strangle him with his guts and he’d smash his head and feed his brain to rats. Yes, that was a good, very reasonable plan. And if Alayne was with child by any chance, the babe would be a Clegane, they would never learn of Littlefinger. The greasy man would soon be forgotten once and for all. Sandor grabbed his gloves and hurried to save his little bird. He was ready for everything. Nothing could surprise him now. Nothing.

A moment later, Sandor stood frozen in the door, staring in disbelief. “Little bird?” he gasped.

“Did you do it?” Alayne asked in a dull voice. 

“It’s her, isn’t it, m’lord?” the buggering sellsword asked, quickly taking his hands away from the girl’s shoulder. “We saw her climbing out of Littlefinger’s window. That’s bloody suspicious, if you ask me. I told you I’m clever, I immediately thought I should take her to you. She didn’t want to go,” he explained apologetically and stepped aside. 

Sandor didn’t take his eyes away from his wife, but he grabbed a pouch full of coin and threw it at the man. “You’ve done well. Here’s a payment for you and your men. You can call them off.”

“Thank you, m’lord. It’s a pleasure doing business with you,” he weighed the pouch in his hand. “A great pleasure. If you ever need us, we’re always at your service.”

“Bugger off.”

The man bowed and quickly left.

“Little bird,” Sandor laughed, as a wave of relief washed over him. “My love, my wife,” he drew her hard against him and covered her face with urgent kisses. He didn’t know what to say, he didn’t want to keep repeating himself, he didn’t want to make all the same promises again. He’d failed Alayne in the first hour of their marriage, he didn’t know how to ask what in the seven hells had happened. His whole life’s purpose was to keep Alayne safe and instead she was there, saving herself. He needed to prove his devotion with actions. Alayne didn’t look injured, but she was obviously shaken and distraught, he needed to comfort her.

“Did you do it?” she asked again. “Did you kill Ned Stark?”

“What?” Sandor blinked, finally pulling away from her. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw them, I saw the heads. Where is Arya? Did you kill her, too?”

“Little bird, little bird, calm down. Here,” he dragged her into his chamber, “sit down. We’re together, little bird, that’s all that matters,” he knelt by her side and kissed her passionately, but Alayne didn’t move, didn’t open her lips for him. Instead she snatched his gloves from him and looked at him with piercing eyes.

“Where is Arya Stark?” she asked him.

“Why does it matter? Little bird, I know it wasn’t a pretty sight, but don’t think about it. We’re both alive and together,” he pointed out. “We’re married. And we’re together.”

Sandor tried to kiss his wife again, but she pushed him away abruptly. “I need to know where Arya Stark is, Sandor. And you will tell me,” she announced haughtily. “Now.”

Sandor stared at his little bird in astonishment. Her sweet lips were pursed in a tight line, her fists clenched and her eyes as her voice. What was happening? What had Littlefinger done to her? Or had she loved Ned Stark so much?

“She’s safe, little bird,” Sandor admitted quietly.

“Where?”

“What does it matter, little bird? I didn’t kill Ned Stark, I hadn’t been in Red Keep for two days, remember? I was looking for you.”

Some of the severity left Alayne’s face as a glimmer of hope appeared in her eyes. “Where is she?” she asked breathlessly.

“Safe. That’s all that matters.”

“I won’t speak to you before I see her, Sandor,” Alayne warned him.

Stunned, he starred at her, his mouth agape. “What?”

“You know where she is,” Alayne narrowed her eyes at him. “And I need to know it, too.”

“Why?”

“My question first,” Alayne ordered.

Sandor didn’t understand what was going on. He’d never been particularly fond of Alayne’s obsession with the Starks. He’d truly hated it whenever she'd chirped about Ned Stark’s wisdom and honour. And she'd been completely delusional when it came to the wolf's actual skills, strength and height. But she was determined now and there was no harm in letting her know the truth, was there? Alayne was his wife after all, Sandor didn’t want to keep any secrets from her. He loved that he could be honest with her and he wanted Alayne to feel safe to share anything with him, too. They'd be sharing bed soon after all. 

And so Sandor stood up and opened the door to the other room.


	15. Chapter 15

The bloody she-wolf started yapping as soon as she saw Sandor’s ugly face. “Why are you keeping us here?” she held up her toothpick of a sword. “What do you want from us?”

“Shut your hole and come here, someone wants to see you.”

“And why should I want to see him?” the girl continued defiantly. Sandor didn’t have time for her childish outbursts, so he roughly pushed her into the room, completely ignoring the silly thing in her hand. And Arya didn’t even try to stab him into his thigh as he’d expected.

Alayne meanwhile stood up, staring at the girls.

“Mother?” Arya spoke the first. “Mother?” she gasped.

“I’m not your mother, Arya,” Alayne whispered. 

“But you look… who is she?” Arya turned to Sandor. “Why did you dress her up as my mother?” she asked accusingly. “I don’t believe in ghost, so if you try to manipulate us, I’ll kill you!”

Sandor snorted at that. The girl might not have been joking, which only made it funnier.

“Arya, please, sit down,” Alayne begged her.

“And why should I? If you touch me, I’ll kill you, too, I swear. I have a sword, I know how to use it!” Arya was threatening Alayne now and that was something Sandor never found amusing. But before he could say anything, the Poole girl took a step to Alayne and touched her hair with a shaking hand. And then Jeyne shriek out. The bitch really shriek out.

“Shut up, you stupid girl!” Sandor hissed. “Do you want somebody to hear you? Do you want to join your father so much?”

“Sansa,” the girl pointed at Alayne. “It’s Sansa!” she let out a harboured breath. “It’s Sansa, how can it be Sansa?” she asked in panic.

“What Sansa, what are you talking about? Calm down, girl!” Sandor growled. “You’re not making any sense.”

Alayne shook her head. “Jeyne is right, Sandor.”

“What?” Sandor and Arya both barked out at the same time.

“It’s true, Arya,” Sandor’s wife said, sadness in her voice. “I am Sansa. I’m your sister.”

Sandors scowled. What was going on?

“Liar!” Arya wasn’t trying to stay quiet, either. “Sansa died the same day as my mother did, wolves tore her to pieces.”

Alayne blinked: “Who told you that?”

“Father did. And everybody knows it. Bloodied clothes was all that was left of Sansa, we buried it instead of her.”

“But that is not true,” Alayne shook her head. “Father blamed me for mother’s death, I was there when she took her last breath, I was the only one in the room and I didn’t help her. He banished me for it.”

Sandor stared at his wife. What? What was she saying?

“How dare you!” Arya was almost yelling at this point, clearly as terrified as she was angry. “Ned Stark would never banish his daughter! Sansa is dead, she’s dead, do you understand?” 

“There was no body, Arya,” Jeyne interjected. “They never found the body. It’s her. I know it’s her. It was assumed Sansa ran away after Lady Catelyn’s death and she was killed by wolves, but... but... nothing was ever found! No signs of wolves around Winterfell, nothing. Lord Baelish’ men brought back only the shreds of Sansa’s clothing, but the dogs didn’t find anything else and father…” she stiffled a sob, “father always said it was suspicious.”

“But why would...” Arya was looking around, clearly confused. “He never said anything!”

“He couldn’t contradict a lord, could he?” the girl sniffed. “The Starks have become very fond of Lord Baelish when he tried to save Lady Catelyn. My father was only a steward, Arya. And he died for it, too!” she cried. “And nobody will remember him. Nobody!” Tears were falling down her cheeks.

Alayne took Jeyne’s hand into hers in a futile attempt to comfort the girl. They were soon embracing each other, Jeyne crying into Alayne’s hair, which only seemed to anger Arya further. “Why would you ever believe father banished you?” she woofed. “It doesn't make any sense. Who told you that anyway?”

“Littlefinger,” Sandor knew immediately. The little bird avoided his eyes, her face even more distraught than before.

“Uncle?” Arya couldn’t believe it.

“Father was right,” Jeyne murmured to herself. “Father was always right, people should have listened.”

“Uncle?” Arya repeated, dumbfounded.

“Who else are we talking here about, girl?” Sandor snapped. He couldn’t wrap his head around it, either, but he needed to be alone with his wife and Arya was the last person he wanted there. “Are you so deaf, or stupid?”

“But… why? Why would uncle say something like that?”

“I don’t know,” Alayne replied brokenly. She was lying, she knew it well enough and so did Sandor. He’d get to gut Littlefinger today after all, wouldn’t he?

“So you’re my sister,” Arya finally sat down. “You’re my sister. You’re Sansa Stark.”

“I am,” Sansa nodded and Sandor’s heart beat faster in anticipation. Would she tell them now? She was Sansa Stark, but she was also a Clegane. Sandor hoped it would be clarified as soon as possible, the Poole girl was already looking at the beauty with a bit too much affection. But Sandor’s wife didn’t saying anything on the matter.

Sansa Stark spoke about her life in a motherhouse in Riverland, she spoke about hiding. She looked so small and vulnerable, Sandor wanted to gather her in his arms and hold her while she related her story. But she was still Sansa Stark, a highborn lady born to be the kindest queen. She didn’t mention her marriage, not even once. She never asked for his support. She never said she loved someone. Sandor listened, he didn’t understand, but he listened. She never said it. She never said she was his.

Sandor stayed quiet when Arya spoke about her father’s death, too. The she-wolf was so overwhelmed she was even politely answering all her sister’s questions. Arya explained to her beautiful sister how their father had been questioning Joffrey’s legitimacy and he wanted to remove Cersei Lannister's family from power. Arya still foolishly believed Ned Stark’s plan could have worked, if only Littlefinger hadn’t betrayed them. It was nonsense, of course, Cersei had long been ready to face Ned Stark’s revolt. All Baelish had achieved was that he’d stopped Ned Stark before he got a chance to fight alongside his men. As it was Ned Stark wasn’t killed during a fight, instead he watched his men fall one by one. As much as Sandor hated Littlefinger, it wasn’t his fault that Joffrey decided to have Ned Stark executed right then and there, in the throne room. Nobody was able to stop Joffrey, of course, not even the queen. 

Arya cried not only for her father, she cried for the Littlefinger’s betrayal, too. Alayne… no, Sansa. Sansa had said that she’d been taken from Winterfell by Littlefinger himself and he was the one who’d hid her in the motherhouse, too. But the stupid little she-wolf kept calling Baelish her uncle anyway and Sansa never corrected her. Did Arya even realize how much Sansa had suffered? And Arya wasn’t even rejoicing at meeting her sister again. Her tiny little wolf brain didn’t comprehend how blessed she was. Her sister had come back from the dead. She’d survived all the abuse of a cruel family member. She’d survived violence. She was there and Arya Stark didn’t even hug her.

As odd as it was, the little bird seemed relieved that Sandor hadn’t been in the Red Keep when Ned Stark died. Why? What did it change, anyway? Alayne... Sansa was still a bloody Stark and Sandor was still a Clegane. Did she truly believe Sandor would have spared the northerners? Sandor snorted at the thought. He wasn’t sure what he would have done, but it certainly wasn’t anything honourable, or noble. Nothing clever, either. He never did anything clever. Why in the seven bloody hells had he fallen in love with the most beautiful and high-born lady in Westeros? He’d always known she wasn’t an ordinary girl, he’d thought she was a goddess. And he hadn’t been that far off. Why hadn’t he listened to his brain for once? An ugly dog like him had no right to fall in love with a girl like her. She knew that, too, because she never mentioned her marriage, not even once. When she spoke about the past weeks, she said Littlefinger had wanted to marry her himself, but she added nothing more on the subject of weddings. Of course Baelish wanted to marry her. Not only Sansa’s looks and charms, but her claim, too, had to be supremely important to Littlefinger. Eddard Stark was out of the picture, so Littlefinger only had to get rid of the Stark boys and he could rule the North. Or more. But the girls didn’t realize it, instead they kept talking about their father and brothers. And Sansa still didn’t mention her marriage. She would never mention it, would she? 

It was astonishing how little it took. Just a few words and Sandor’s world fell apart. Everything he’d believed, everything he’d hoped for, everything he’d planned, it was all lost. In one moment he was dreaming of his future with his little bird, in the next he was alone again. The girl wasn’t Alayne, his wife. She was Sansa, Lord Eddard’s daughter. She was a lady. A highborn lady by birth. She was Sansa. Sandor had held the beauty in his arms, he’d kissed her. It was more than enough luck for a lifetime, so why did he now desperately want more? 

Sandor still loved the girl, he loved Sansa Stark. There was no denying it. But she was so ashamed of their marriage she even avoided eye contact with him. And later, at night, she didn’t come to him. He kept waiting, he didn’t really dare to hope, but he was waiting. They could talk everything out, he could comfort her, they could be together. The whole night he stayed wide awake, imagining her coming to his bed. She never did. And he wept, he wept like a bloody babe. And then, when he took all three girls and left the city with them, he was disappointed again. Disappointment washed over him every night anew. Sansa called him “my lord”, she never touched him, never came to him. Sandor had married Alayne Stone, but Alayne Stone was no more and Sansa Stark had no use for such marriage. Of course she didn’t want to consummate it. Their marriage was as good as annulled, she made it abundantly clear.

Sansa was very quiet during their journey to Clegane’s Keep, it was mostly Jeyne who did all the talking. Sansa’s responses were all short and unsatisfactory. She was crying when nobody was watching and it was breaking Sandor’s heart. He wanted to help. Just one word, one sign that it was what she wanted, and he’d cradle her to his chest and soothe all her pain. But she kept to herself, all Sansa had taken from him were his favourite gloves, which she never returned and Sandor didn’t want to ask.

All Sandor could offer to Lady Sansa was protection. And this time he wouldn’t fail her. He would stand and walk behind her, he’d help her into the saddle, he’d kill anyone who’d threaten her, he’d die for her if it came to it. But he wouldn’t open his heart to her again, no. Sandor could hardly blame Sansa for not wanting him, she could have any lord, or king she wanted. But Sandor had to protect himself, too, he had to maintain his own sanity. He, too, said as little as possible, he avoided eye contact with the girl. But it didn’t make the pain go away, it didn’t make her disappear from his dreams. And it didn’t stop his cock from getting hard at the sight of Sansa, either. 

Sandor still didn’t understand why Alayne... why Sansa hadn’t told him anything about her origins, why she hadn’t asked him to rid her of Littlefinger. And most importantly, Sandor didn’t understand why she had married him. Had Sandor unknowingly taken advantage of her? He really needed to drink. Or fight. Or both. He was very pleasantly surprised when some buggering dimwits attacked them on the road. It was a good exercise. Head here, heart there, down went the arm. It was nice, it helped him clear his head. At least until Sansa hugged him in front of everyone, telling him she’d been scared for his life. That confused him again. Why did she do it? Why had she worried for him? She didn’t want to be his wife, she didn’t want to share her bed with him, so why pretend he was somehow important to her? She was a high-born lady. He was a dog. Or a former dog. He was nothing, that’s what he was. She didn’t want him, so she shouldn’t fear for his life, either. It was all so baffling, Sandor didn’t understand anything any more.

And there was more. When they finally arrived to Clegane’s Keep and Sandor helped Sansa off the horse, she didn’t walk away from him immediately as usual. Arya and Jeyne were talking with boys in the stable and this time. Sansa’s sad eyes met Sandor’s, her small hand smoothing over his chest.

“Welcome home, Sandor,” she smiled demurely. “I'm sorry we didn’t get to use the new saddle,” Sansa said in a hushed tone. “I couldn’t have ridden on Stranger in front of Arya, but we should have more privacy now, shouldn’t we, my love?”

Sandor starred at her. She’d called him her love. She had, hadn’t she? She'd called him her love. What did it mean? Why would she do that? Now? After weeks on the road, after weeks they stayed in separate rooms in the inns? There was no way she could have been serious, no, Sandor couldn’t fall for it again. “I’m not your bloody husband,” he snarled, immediately regretting his outburst, hoping she’d contradict him. 

Sansa was taken aback, her beautiful eyes widening. But before she could reply, Arya and Jeyne returned from the stable and Sansa quickly pulled away from Sandor. Of course she did. She hadn’t been serious.

“The stables aren’t too bad,” Arya commented as if she was a good judge of it. “Will you be buying more horses, Clegane?”

“Bugger off,” Sandor barked over his shoulder and lead Stranger and Sansa’s new horse into the stable. Everybody in the Clegane’s Keep was scared of their new lord and that irritated him further.

It wasn’t the only time Arya interrupted them. No, it turned out she had a special talent of intrusion. Sandor and Sansa found themselves alone several times during the following weeks and each time Sandor almost started to hope his marriage wasn’t completely over. And then Arya appeared and started one stupid conversation, or another. Sandor was meanwhile getting more and more confused. Sansa called him her husband when they were alone, but she never spoke about her marriage in front of Arya. She secretly whispered to him about the bond they shared, but she never actively tried to initiate any private moments. Sandor was glad that Sansa was forming a new relationship with her sister, but if she wanted to speak to him, why did't she just invite him to her chambers? Why didn't she come to him? They slept in the neighbouring chambers, there was nothing easier. If she didn’t do it, it was because she didn’t want to.

Sansa and Arya kept sending one letter after another, writing their brothers, their uncle, their cousin and seemingly everybody else in Westeros. Sansa sent many letters to King’s Landing, too. Whom she was writing, Sandor didn’t know. One thing was clear, though, the servants loved Sansa as much as they feared Sandor. She would have been the most amazing lady of the Clegane’s Keep. But she wasn’t and perhaps it was for the best. As it was Sandor could concentrate on keeping her safe and stop living in his dreams. The war broke out just as Sandor expected and Robb Stark proclaimed himself the King in the North. It was definite then, Sansa was officially a princess. A bloody royal. She was right there with Sandor, and yet she was further away than ever. He’d lost her three times before, but this time, he’d lost her for good.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a time jump and not enough of SanSan, but we're getting there.

Sansa should have been thinking about her brother, but her mind kept instead circling back to her husband. Sansa didn’t know what to do. Robb would know, he was a king, but Sansa felt completely lost. Sandor didn’t want to speak to her, he kept just nodding. He did anything she commanded, he always did, but whenever she asked why he was angry at her, he growled that he had no right to be angry at Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. It was proper, courteous and it was a lie. He was definitely angry. And she wasn’t even Sansa Stark. 

Alayne Stone had never existed. Sansa Stark had long been lost. But Lady Clegane? Lady Clegane was something real, something true. Sansa greatly enjoyed being a lady again and Clegane was a name that spoke of love and strength and safety, all the things Alayned had so dearly missed. She was Sansa Clegane and she was proud of it, she was proud of her marriage. So why did Sandor deny its existence? Why did he never call her his wife? Sansa understood that he was disappointed with her because she’d concealed her true identity, but he hadn’t given her a chance to explain herself.

Sansa straightened up her posture. She should have been thinking about her brother right now. He was the King in the North and he needed her. She had to concentrate. She’d travelled in a few weeks more than she’d travelled in her entire life. But she’d finally got to Riverrun and there was a very difficult task ahead of her. She had to think of the politics, the alliances, the war, the husband… Well, not the husband. Robb wouldn’t agree with her choice of a husband. Sansa swallowed, anxiety gripping her heart. Lord Baelish had always spoken of playing the game, but this was not a game Sansa wanted to play. She was Sansa again and with that came the blessing of a family and the curse of duty. She had to play this game right, because if she didn’t, Sandor could lose his head for marrying her. And it didn’t matter, whether it would be Lord Tywin punishing a disloyal bannerman, or Robb Stark defending his sister’s honour. It was something Sansa could not possibly risk. Too many people had died because of her, Sandor would not be one of them.

Sansa looked around inconspicuously, her eyes landing on Sandor by a sheer coincidence. He was scowling as usual, but there was an air of deep sadness about him. And that was so much worse than the anger. Sansa wanted to hug him, ignore all his growling and kiss that frown away. But there were too many people around. Sansa trusted Sandor, but she didn’t want to let her guard down around anybody else just yet. She didn’t know people back in the Clegane’s Keep. Perhaps they were loyal to Sandor, perhaps to Lord Tywin, perhaps they’d welcome any chance to earn extra money by informing someone powerful of Sandor’s indiscretions. She didn’t know her own family, either. Perhaps her Uncle Benjen would support her, perhaps not. Perhaps Arya would rejoice at having such a skilled good brother. Or perhaps she’d assume that Sandor had taken advantage of Sansa’s vulnerability and he needed to be removed. There were too many possibilities, too many threats. Sansa was now convinced that it hadn’t been the Seven who’d been punishing her throughout the years, she believed it had been a mere mortal all along. But she couldn’t trust mortals, she couldn’t risk anyone knowing about her marriage. All the scheming was unfortunately taking its toll on Sansa’s marriage. Four moon turns had passed since they’d left King’s Landing and during that time she hadn’t properly talked to Sandor even once. She’d tried countless times to explain him her plans, ask him for patience, but he just didn’t seem to comprehend the danger of their situation. Her stubborn little giant wasn’t even listening.

Margeary approached her with a warm smile. “I’m so glad I have accepted your invitation, Sansa. It is good to be among friends in these difficult times.”

“Riverrun is lucky to have you,” Sansa smiled. “And in this dress you are truly brightening the day up!”

“Oh, this?” Margeary glanced at her colourful gown. “It’s just an old dress to cheer me up a little. I’ve grown so tired of the widow’s dress, Sansa. I know dear Renly would have wanted me to move on and look to the future.”

Sansa smiled. She didn’t even know what else to do but smile, the bold colours of the young widow’s dress had taken her by surprise. Everybody knew it had been only three weeks since Renly Baratheon’s tragic death, so Sansa could only hope nobody would comment on Margeary’s choice of attire. It had taken Sansa a lot of effort to get Margeary come with her to Riverrun, she couldn’t let anyone ruin this opportunity. Robb would have known what to say, he was a king, but Sansa wasn’t so educated and she rather avoided the uncomfortable topic altogether.

“Robb has written me that he’s looking forward to meeting you, but I don’t think he realized what a beautiful welcome he’d get,” Sansa noted.

Margeary bashfully lowered her lashes, but her smile remained confident. “You must be very proud of your brother, Sansa.”

“I am,” Sansa agreed happily. “People truly love Robb, he’s the most honourable and just king. And he’s the kindest brother I could ever wish for.”

“Indeed,” Margeary nodded gracefully. “My brother Willas is like that, too. He is not a king, of course, but he has the most noble heart. I only hope he will find a woman worthy of his devotion.”

“I am sure he will. From what I’ve heard you have three very splendid brothers,” Sansa conceded. “I hope all our brothers will meet one day, they could make good friends.”

“Indeed, Willas has always had a great admiration for the north, he says northern women are the most beautiful women he’s seen.”

Sansa wanted to compliment Margeary back, but the girls were interrupted by a tall knight, Lady Brienne, who lead Margeary away to Loras Tyrell. The guards had announced there was a huge direwolf approaching the gates and Margeary’s people were getting nervous at the news.

Sansa was pleased with her performance. Would Robb be pleased? Margeary was clearly looking forward to meeting Robb and Sansa would make sure they spent enough time together. They could even play games. Sansa and Arya would of course lose immediately, they’d even have to leave all of the suddenn, and Margeary and Robb would have to play alone. Just the two of them.

“It won’t happen,” Sansa heard a low rumble behind her that sent shivers down her spine. 

“My lord?” Sansa turned to her husband.

“It won’t happen,” Sandor rasped. “You’ve spent the last three weeks talking your brother up, my lady, but it won’t do you any good. The Tyrell girl has come only to get information out of you and explore all options. She wants to be a queen, though, a queen and nothing less.”

Sansa didn’t even bother denying her intentions. “And my brother is a king.”

“Not a king enough for the Tyrells.”

“Lady Margeary wouldn’t want to be with Joffrey after everything I told her!” Sansa protested.

“The girl will marry the Night’s King of your bloody tales as long as he makes her a queen of Westeros,” Sandor growled. “She doesn’t give a rat’s arse about the North or the honour of your brother.”

“Oh,” Sansa bit her lip. “Interesting. Thank you, Sandor, you’ve helped me a lot,” she said softly, looking deep into the man’s eyes, but he quickly averted his gaze. 

Margeary wanted to be a queen. Very well then, she could still become one. Sansa trusted Sandor’s judgement, but she wasn’t quite so sure about Robb. Robb was a great king, she knew that much, but he also completely trusted Lord Baelish. Would Robb agree with her plans? There was no way of knowing. Arya had welcomed Sansa into her family with breath-taking sincerity and after the initial shock she even started purposefully seeking out Sansa’s company. Arya had somehow been able to switch from loving Lord Baelish to hating him within two hours and now she spent every day discussing with Sandor all the possible ways of disembowelling Petyr. Uncle Brynden had joined Arya and Sandor in these conversations as soon as they arrived to the Vale and he added some interesting suggestions of his own. But Robb? What would Robb say? Sansa had been too afraid to tell him about Lord Baelish in her letters, she couldn’t be sure what Petyr’s next move would be. Her tactics had paid off in the Vale, she couldn’t count on it with Robb.

Sansa dearly hoped she’d be able to restore her relationship with Robb. Robb always knew what to do. Granted, Sansa had perhaps been a little disappointed that Robb’s first letter didn’t contain enough words of joy. He’d only written her that he was pleased that she was alive. Robb was pleased, how charming. His political instructions were however significantly more detailed, he’d given Sansa many orders and many more were to come. And that was more important, wasn’t it? He trusted her. He wanted her to help him. And he was a king now, people called him the King in the North, and he trusted Sansa even as a king. Sansa was sure he was a good king. Robb was a kind, just king worthy of many songs. It was a great honour that he already trusted her with many political tasks. She couldn’t ask for more.

Robb had the devotion of the North, the trust of the Riverlands. Sansa also got him the support of the Vale, even though cousin Robert’s promise was far from unconditional. He was also willing to help only Sansa, not Robb. That was however a mere trifle, meeting Robert had otherwise been surprisingly nice. It was sad that Sansa had met her cousin before she got a chance to see any of her brothers again, but the visit had been very fruitful. And informative. Both Robert and Sansa learnt a lot about Lord Baelish during the few days they’d spent together. Together they were both finally able to accept that everything Lord Baelish had told them had indeed been a lie, a cruel, twisted lie. It was painful, it was terrifying and it was utterly heart-breaking. It was an odd connection. But for Sansa and Robert it was a strong bond nonetheless. They were family. Lord Petyr was not. Not after Ned Stark’s death. Not after death of Lysa Arryn. Not after his first crime. Not ever.

Sweetrobin was a peculiar boy, but there was still kindness in his heart, despite his difficult upbringing. And there was hope. Ever since their meeting Sansa and Robert stayed in frequent contact. The Seven knew how much the boy needed guidance of somebody else than Petyr Baelish, or Lysa Arryn. Poor Robert yearned to have somebody on his side and Sansa could be just that. There was now a mutual understanding between the two cousins, an alliance. It was unfortunately also the only thing Sansa had achieved.

Sure, Sansa had also been close to securing an agreement with Lord Renly, but that didn’t mean anything now. Lord Renly was dead. And it had all started so brightly for him. Renly had proclaimed himself a King of the Seven Kingdoms and he married a beautiful Lady Margeary from the Reach. Renly Baratheon had believed Joffrey Baratheon wasn’t a rightful heir to the throne and Stannis wasn’t well suited for the role, either. Why wasn’t he well suited? Sansa suspected Lord Stannis probably wasn’t well in his head, it was said that he even prayed to the Lord of Light. Sansa had therefore been more than willing to support Renly Baratheon’s claim. There could never be a king in Westeros who didn’t worship the Seven.

Sansa Stark knew almost nothing about the Baratheon brothers, but she’d been present at their parley, she’d been present at Renly’s many grand proclamations. And she’d been at Storm’s End when Renly Baratheon got murdered, too. She’d just been dining with Lady Margeary when it happened. Or was it Queen Margeary? Was Margeary still a queen when Renly got killed and there were three more men in Westeros who called themselves kings? The titles were indeed getting more and more confusing, which was making propriety uncomfortably unclear.

Renly Baratheon had been all alone when we was murdered and it was unclear who the assassin was. Many people immediately started to blame Sandor, calling him a Lannister dog. It certainly weren’t Sandor’s harsh words, nor his drawn sword, what convinced everyone of his innocence. Fortunately, there were enough witnesses who saw Sandor at the dinner with Sansa and Margeary, so it wasn’t too difficult to talk some sense into everyone. Robb had however lost a key ally in Renly and Sansa needed to act. Act quickly.

Sansa was unexpectedly torn out of her thoughts by Jeyne’s giggling. Sansa glanced at her friend in astonishment. Surely this wasn’t proper behaviour in this important moment. When Sansa looked around, she noticed a blushing young lord from stormlands smiling at Jeyne, an odd gleam in his eyes. Had Sansa missed something? Beric Dondarrion was a man pleasant enough, but he didn’t have a large figure, dark looks, nor a raspy voice. He was an exceptionally plain looking man, why would Jeyne be paying any attention to him? He’d sworn his loyalty to Renly Baratheon and after the young lord’s death he was chosen as one of the knights escorting Lady Margeary to Riverlands. But that didn’t mean he was completely trustworthy. And it certainly didn’t give him any rights to be looking at Jeyne this way, especially since his betrothal had been broken only few weeks before. Or had it been Jeyne who’d provoked this behaviour? Sansa narrowed her eyes at her friend. Jeyne seemed to be playing with her hair awful lot today. 

But before Sansa could talk to Jeyne, Margeary returned to her side. “It’s thrilling to see such a magical beast even from the distance,” the beauty said, her voice shaking only a little. “I thought the wolf would be by your brother’s side.”

“I am sure he will, he is just faster than the horses,” Sansa said non-convincingly. In truth, she was wondering about the same. Didn’t Robb trust her? Did he send Grey Wind to make sure it wasn’t a trap? News about Sansa had spread quickly. Nobody knew where she came from, but her resemblance with Catelyn Stark was striking. People in Riverlands started to spread rumours about Catelyn coming back to life to avenge Ned Stark. Some said Sansa had been born along with the direwolves. Perhaps she was a Faceless Assassin. Perhaps she was a witch. Nobody knew. But everybody was certain she’d had something to do with Renly’s death. And Robb obviously didn’t trust her enough, either.

And yet Sansa had to fight for his cause anyway. “My brother must be very tired,” she sighed dramatically. “There is a heavy burden on him. After all, he’d supported King Renly and now that the king has been tragically taken for us, the future of Westeros is very uncertain.”

“Indeed. It’s a worry of us all.”

“More so for my brother. As you have said, Stannis Baratheon is not fit for the role of the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Cersei’s children are not true Baratheons and the family is cruel beyond imagination. The royal family has essentially gone extinct,” Sansa declared boldly. “Many people are calling for my brother to lead them through these times, it must be very hard on him.”

“Many people?” Margeary asked pleasantly.

“Well, the war is only beginning and Riverlands and Vale have already joined his side. Robb is even starting to gain support of the most loyal westerland houses,” Sansa glanced meaningfully towards Sandor, who scowled in return.

“Yes, we have all noticed, but how has the King in the North achieved that?” Margeary inquired, using Robb’s new title for the first time.

“Unfortunately, I cannot reveal my brother’s plans,” Sansa gave her a coy smile. “But I am very glad we have Lord Clegane and others on our side.”

Sandor scowled some more and his mouth gave a twitch.

“Your brother is considering taking the throne for himself then?” 

“My brother only wants what is best for the Seven Kingdoms,” Sansa answered neutrally. 

“And if he gets more support than the Lannisters or Stannis Baratheon?” Margeary wondered.

“We shall see,” Sansa smiled. “For all the crimes of the Mad King it was said that after the Robert’s Rebellion my father perhaps had the right to claim the Iron Throne for himself. He didn't. My brother is now in a similar position, so one has to wonder whether he ought to make a different decision than my father.”

“Your brother might be the king of the Seven Kingdoms then,” Margeary's expression was slowly transforming in realization.

“My brother will be a good king and that is what matters most.”

“Of course,” Margeary agreed politely and fell silent, deep in thought.

The gates opened and Sansa’s heart skipped a beat. Finally, finally she’d be reunited with her brother and everything would be fine again. Robb always knew what to do. Everything would be fine.


	17. Chapter 17

Everyone gasped when Grey Wind came running through the gates and many horses immediately panicked. Robb’s direwolf was even bigger than Sansa had imagined him and much more beautiful. While the whole delegation from the Reach took a step back, Sansa smiled widely and Arya ran to hug the magnificent creature. But when Grey Wind turned towards Sansa, Sandor immediately stepped between them, his hand on the pommel of his sword. The direwolf bared his teeth for a moment, staring deep into Sandor’s eyes, taking a good whiff. 

“Sandor!” Sansa hissed. “There’s no threat. Sandor!”

Sandor scowled, letting go of his sword, but standing still. Grey Wind seemed to appreciate the gesture and he came closer, tentatively sniffing Sador’s hand. When he unexpectedly licked it, Sandor chuckled and run his hand through the animal’s thick fur. The rough sound of Sandor’s laughter miraculously relieved the tension and Grey Wind started wagging his tail, as if he’d just been reunited with his own brother. But Sansa felt a pang of jealousy. Sandor was never chuckling with her anymore and besides, both of them, Grey Wind and Sandor should have been paying attention to her. This was her moment.

“Grey Wind!” she called out impatiently.

The direwolf turned his huge head to her and finally hurried to her. He was as big as a horse, his teeth were bigger than lion’s and he was absolutely adorable. Sansa happily scratched him behind his ears, whispering to him how delighted she was to see him.

Margeary seemed a bit wary of Grey Wind at first, but then she put on a confident smile and took a step towards the direwolf, too. To Sansa’s and Grey Wind’s great surprise Margeary held out her arm and touched the animal, her smile faltering only briefly.

“You truly are an animal fit for a king, aren’t you?” Margeary murmured, more to herself. She was looking at Grey Wind in awe, obviously fascinated by his beauty even more than Sansa. It made Sansa proud.

Grey Wind allowed Margeary the touch and Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. Arya had spoken extensively about the importance of the direwolves’ opinions. She had always known she and Sandor would get along with the Stark wolves, but she hadn’t been so sure about Margeary.

“The King in the North!” the guards called out again. “The King in the North!”

And there they were, a large party of northerners poured through the gates. A direwolf stood by Sansa’s side, direwolf banners suddenly surrounded her. These people were different than those of King’s Landing. The clothing was darker, the faces sterner. The winter was coming.

“Arya!” the auburn-haired man called out, dismounting immediately. “Arya, are you alright?”

“Robb!” Arya squeaked, jumping into his arms.

Robb. Robb looked like a Tully. He was handsome and so very young. Why had Sansa imagined him looking like father? Sansa and Robb had always looked alike, she’d known that, they looked like their mother, while father and Arya were the ones who’d had the look of the North. And Jon. Jon looked like a Stark, too.

Robb’s pale face couldn’t hide the blush colouring his cheeks. Sansa knew too well how inconvenient that blush was, how impossible to control. But it was strange to see a blushing king. War had melted all the softness from Robb’s face and left him hard and lean, but his cheeks were now red and when he looked at her, his eyes were uncertain and shy.

“Sansa...” the young man stood frozen in place, starring at her. He wetted his lips. “It’s nice to see you again, sister. You truly remind me of our mother.”

Did he know how many times she’d heard that? Did he know what the resemblance had meant for her? It hurt Sansa a little to see Robb’s reserved reaction. It was to be expected, of course, it would take time for them to get close again. But didn’t Robb realize what people were saying about her? Didn’t he know how important it was for them to show unity? The stark difference between the greetings of his sisters wouldn’t go unnoticed. 

Sansa curtseyed. “Your Grace. May I present to you Lady Margeary, a daughter of Lord Mace Tyrell?”

Robb smiled at the other girl and noted how pleased he was to meet her. He was pleased. Did he always talk like that? Was this indeed how he talked to women? It wasn’t enough. He could say this to his sisters, he could speak like that to his wolf, but not to Margeary Tyrell. Did Robb realize how important this first impression was? Did he know the lady had expected a compliment? There was no falsehood in complimenting a beautiful, charming girl, it was the least anyone could do.

When the introductions were done, everybody continued to stand there awkwardly, not knowing what else to say. Their uncle Edmure, the new Lord of Riverrun, made some jest that didn’t make anyone laugh. Even Grey Wind had stopped wagging his tail. Sansa could tell Robb was truly glad to see her, and yet the thought of Sansa being alive and adult probably still seemed too uncanny. It was odd to her, too. She had believed for so long that she had to hide, or else she’d bring even more misfortune on her family, it was difficult to think differently. She knew Lord Baelish had lied, she knew her family didn’t blame her for her mother’s death, she knew Lord Baelish was the one who’d caused the death of Gislin and all who came before him. She knew it in her head, but her heart was still full of guilt and fear. She was a stranger in her own family.

Petyr had been an important figure in Robb’s life as well, but fortunately, none of Robb’s words and gestures reminded Sansa of the Littlefinger. Lord Baelish would have known exactly what to do in this moment, he’d have said all the right words and more. Robb wasn’t pretending, he was standing there, genuinely disturbed by seeing a living imagine of his dead mother. He had honest eyes that reflected his feeling even too well. Sandor had assured Sansa that Robb’s strategy was a clever one and indeed, thrice had Robb battled the Lannisters, thrice he’d won. Robb seemed to know what he was doing with his army, which was good, very good. But he couldn’t win a war on a battlefield alone. And unfortunately, he didn’t seem to be as gifted with words. Or facial expressions. Did he know people expected to see a king, a strong northern king commanding respect, not an uncertain boy who’d just lost his father?

“Come, brother, let’s get you ready for the feast,” Sansa lead Robb away, smiling confidently, touching his arm in a self-assured gesture.“We have so much to talk about.”

“We do,” Robb nodded. He finally understood and offered both his arms to his sisters, walking them to the door. It was awkward again, terribly awkward, but it was a show of unity at least and that mattered the most.

“I’m sorry that you’ve missed grandfather’s funeral,” Sansa continued, not expecting lengthy responses from her brother anymore. “But he was very proud of you, Robb, we have told him all about your accomplishments.”

“Thank you, Sansa, I, too, wanted to pay farewell to grandfather,” he replied stiffly. “And not only to him,” he added with sadness.

Sansa squeezed his hand and they walked pass by Loras Tyrell looking like a perfect, united family. Sandor hated the Reach and the Tyrells. He’d said that everybody in the fertile region was obsessed with knighthood and appearances. The Tyrells loved their courtly rules, they loved all titles and all the frills that came with them. Sansa didn’t mind this. Robb’s fresh face was crowned with the most beautiful dark auburn hair and any knight of songs would envy him his blue eyes. He was young, but dressed in heavy furs he looked like a haughty king of old times. And he had a direwolf by his side, who was a much better royal pet than Targaryen dragons. If appearances were important to the Tyrells, Robb would appear more kingly than any king ever had, Sansa would make sure of it. No Lannister or supposed Baratheon could ever compare to her brother.

Margeary was as gracious as ever, guiding the conversation smoothly. When she talked to Robb, she even touched him once or twice and Sansa thought that Margeary’s plans were perhaps finally starting to resemble her own. It took too long before the siblings were finally alone, just the three of them. Robb patiently heard out Arya, but when Sansa stated something, he always turned to his other sister for confirmation. It still hurt. Sansa and Arya hadn’t been close when they were children, Sansa had behaved horribly to Jon, only because he was a bastard, and their younger brothers had been too young. But Robb? Sansa had thought that Robb was the one sibling who had loved her dearly, who would rejoice at seeing her alive. Did he believe she was cursed? Did he know how hard it was for her not to think the same?

“There must some mistake, Sansa,” Robb kept shaking his head. “Uncle has always helped our family, he spent a fortune trying to find a cure for mother’s sickness. Father didn’t trust him initially, either, but then he always regretted it. Uncle Petyr has done for us more than you could ever imagine.”

“He held a dagger to father’s neck,” Arya reminded him. “I saw him. I saw him!”

“It could have been a desperate attempt to save father’s life and have him sent to the Wall. Uncle couldn’t have predicted Joffrey would have him executed!”

“So how did Sansa end up in a motherhouse in riverlands?” Arya retorted. “And why did uncle tell father that she’d been killed by wolves?”

“I don’t know, Arya, I don’t know!” Robb sounded tired. “But Petyr is our family, we can’t denounce him without knowing all the facts!”

“I know enough,” Arya barked out. “I’ve seen enough!”

Robb heaved a heavy sigh. “Will you give us a moment, Arya? I’d like to speak to Sansa alone.”

Arya made a face, but she did as she was bid. When Sansa was left alone with Robb, he still didn’t relax. Perhaps he was afraid he’d end up like Renly. Did he think she was a witch, too?

“Sansa, it’s obvious what you are insinuating about our uncle,” Robb said, suddenly flustered. “But I need to hear it directly from you. Has Petyr forced himself on you?”

“He has not.”

“No?” Robb was clearly as much relieved as he was surprised. “But then… what did he want from you?”

“He said that he wanted to protect me. I believe that he needed me to stay a maiden in case he needed to prove it,” Sansa explained. “What he wanted… what he still wants is to be married to me and to hold power. I suspect father’s death was quite convenient for him and he probably counted with a few other deaths that would allow me, and more importantly him, to inherit Winterfell.”

“You mean… me? Sansa, you can’t possibly mean that our uncle wanted me dead!”

“No, of course,” Sansa assured him. “I mean Lord Baelish still wants all Starks dead. Except of me, because I look like mother.”

“Uncle has taught me more than anyone, he would never want any harm to come to me.”

“Father probably thought the same,” Sansa reminded him, looking Robb straight into his eyes, so similar to her own. She couldn’t allow herself a moment of weakness, she was a lady now. And it was too important Robb understood the situation.

Robb remained quiet for a moment. “You’ve changed, Sansa.”

“We both have. We’re not children anymore, Robb,” Sansa took his hands into her own. “But we still are family, aren’t we? I want to help you, Robb, I know how hard the past weeks have been on you.”

Robb gave her a sad smile. “Sansa, when you say you are not a child anymore, do you mean your virtue has been stolen from you after all?”

Sansa tensed a bit, failing to mask her discomfort. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Have you lost your purity?”

“My purity?” Sansa smiled mirthlessly and she stood a little straighter. “No, I haven’t lost anything.”

“Are you still a maid then?”

“I am.”

Robb breathed out in relief. “Oh, Sansa, that is such good news!” he finally gave her a genuine smile. “I was so afraid, but you’ve made me very happy indeed.”

He’d been pleased that she was alive. He was happy, even thrilled that she was a maid. Did he know how many times Alayne’s maidenhead had been a topic of discussions? 

“I’m glad to hear that, your grace,” she nodded.

“Ah, don’t be so official with me, Sansa,” Robb grinned. “We’re a family. I will find you a good husband, I promise. Nobody will doubt you then. But first I have to arrange for a septa to inspect you today, so we can put this to rest as soon as possible.”

Sansa remembered the old bony fingers touching her at the most intimate place, she remembered the tears she’d shed the first time, when she was eleven, the protests that meant nothing the second time. The fear, the humiliation of each time Petyr started doubting her virtue. “Today?” Sansa’s own face betrayed her.

“Yes, today, is it a problem?”

“I...” her voice broke, betraying her, too. “I did not expect it.”

“It’s of no consequence. You’re heard Loras. Lady Margeary even asked for the examination herself, no maid wants her virtue to be doubted. Do you not want to clear your name, Sansa?”

“Why should I?” Sansa was trembling, at all the memories suddenly overwhelming her senses. “I have done nothing wrong, Robb,” she protested stupidly. It wasn’t proper behaviour of her at all, but she couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t go through it all again, she didn’t want any septa touching her.

“But Sansa, you have travelled and apparently spent a lot of alone time with the Lannister dog!” Robb told her reproachfully. “Can you imagine what people think about that?”

“People? What people?” Sansa asked icily, taking a deep, calming breath.

“Everybody will think of that, Sansa. There’s no worse company than that rabid dog...”

“That rabid dog has saved lives of both your sisters,” Sansa found her calm again, her voice cold and cutting. “Lord Clegane is a man of honour.”

Robb raised his brows. “A man of honour that has betrayed his lord?”

“Would he be a better man in your eyes if he had obeyed the Lannisters and participated in murder of our father? Me, Arya and Jeyne have got to Riverrun only thanks to the man that you vilify. A king should know whom to show gratitude and whom to slander.”

“Sansa, you’re forgetting yourself,” Robb warned her.

Robb didn’t have any right to speak ill of Sansa’s husband. She wanted to run to Sandor even now, run to him, hide in his embrace and tell him about all her fears and nightmares. He’d comfort her, she knew. He’d be kind and loving to her no matter what. Sandor had never asked. He’d never asked whether she was a maid, he’d never cared. Sandor loved her when she’d been a bastard girl, could he love her when she was a Stark, too?

Sansa let go of Robb’s hands and lowered her head in a gesture of humility she didn’t feel. “Forgive me, your grace.”

When she straightened up again, she looked at her brother again. Her beautiful, brave brother with a direwolf by his side and great victories under his belt. Did Robb know he wouldn’t win this war without Sansa's help?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know these chapters didn’t have enough of SanSan, but that will definitely be changing in the next chapter.  
> I’m having a surgery next week and I’ll be in rehabilitation then, so I’m not sure when I’ll upload next, but I’ll do my best.


End file.
